THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
MR.    CHARLES  KILMER 


THE  NEW  MORNING 


WORKS  OF  ALFRED  NO  YES 


COLLECTED  POEMS — 2  Vols. 

THE  LORD  OF  MISRULE 

A  BELGIAN  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

THE  WINE-PRESS 

WALKING  SHADOWS — Prose 

TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

SHERWOOD 

THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 
DRAKE:  AN  ENGLISH  EPIC 
POEMS 

THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 
THE  GOLDEN  HYNDE 
THE  NEW  MORNING 


THE 

NEW   MORNING 

.     HM  ••"•••- 

POEMS 

BY 

ALFRED  NOYES 


NEW   YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
ALFRED  No  YES 


Copyright,  IQIQ,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


DEDICATION 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  SIR  CECIL 
SPRING-RICE 

i. 

STEADFAST  as  any  soldier  of  the  line 
He  served  his  England,  with  the  imminent 

death 

Poised  at  his  heart.     Nor  could  the  world  divine 
The  constant  peril  of  each  burdened  breath. 

England,  and  the  honour  of  England,  he  still  served 
Walking  the  strict  path,  with  the  old  high  pride 

Of  those  invincible  knights  who  never  swerved 
One  hair's  breadth  from  the  way  until  they  died. 

Quietness  he  loved,   and   books,   and  the  grave 
beauty 

Of  England's  Helicon,  whose  eternal  light 
Shines  like  a  lantern  on  that  road  of  duty, 

Discerned  by  few  in  this  chaotic  night. 

And  his  own  pen,  foretelling  his  release, 
Told  us  that  he  foreknew  "the  end  was  peace." 
[vii] 


DEDICATION 

n. 

Soldier  of  England,  he  shall  live  unsleeping 
Among  his   friends,   with   the  old   proud   flag 

above; 

For  even  today  her  honour  is  in  his  keeping. 
He  has  joined  the  hosts  that  guard  her  with 
their  love. 

They  shine  like  stars,  unnumbered  happy  legions, 
In  that  high  realm  where  all  our  darkness  dies. 

He  moves,  with  honour,  in  those  loftier  regions, 
Above  this  "world  of  passion  and  of  lies": 

For  so  he  called  it,  keeping  his  own  pure  passion 
A  silent  flame  before  the  true  and  good; 

Not  fawning  on  the  throng  in  this  world's  fashion 
To  come  and  see  what  all  might  see  who  would. 

Soldier  of  England,  brave  and  gentle  knight, 
The  soul  of  Sidney  welcomes  you  tonight. 


I  viii  ] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DEDICATION:  To  THE  MEMORY  OF  SIR  CECIL 

SPRING-RlCE V 

"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES"       ....  3 

ON  THE  WESTERN  FRONT 8 

VICTORY 10 

AMERICAN  POEMS,   1912-1917 

REPUBLIC  AND  MOTHERLAND 19 

THE  UNION 22 

GHOSTS  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD 24 

THE  OLD  MEETING  HOUSE 27 

PRINCETON  - 30 

BEETHOVEN  IN  CENTRAL  PARK 34 

SONGS   OF    THE   TRAWLERS   AND    SEA 

POEMS 

THE  PEOPLE'S  FLEET 37 

KlLMENY 38 

CAP'N  STORM-ALONG 40 

THE  BIG  BLACK  TRAWLER 42 

NAMESAKES 44 

WIRELESS 46 

FISHERS  OF  MEN 48 

AN  OPEN  BOAT 50 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PEACE  IN  A  PALACE    .  •   .  -•'.     .     , .    ,  '  .     .  52 

THE  VINDICTIVE 55 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPS  OF  CHELTENHAM     .     .  61 

To  A  SUCCESSFUL  MAN 66 

THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN  WITH  THE  AMBER  SNUFF- 
BOX   68 

WHAT  GRANDFATHER  SAID 71 

MEMORIES  OF  THE  PACIFIC  COAST    ....  75 

NIPPON 77 

THE  HUMMING  BIRDS 79 

LINES  FOR  A  SUN-DIAL 81 

THE  REALMS  OF  GOLD 82 

COMPENSATIONS 85 

DEAD  MAN'S  MORRICE 87 

THE  OLD  FOOL  IN  THE  WOOD 90 

A  NEW  MADRIGAL  TO  AN  OLD  MELODY      .      .  91 

THE  LOST  BATTLE       ..........  94 

RIDDLES  OF  MERLIN 96 

THE  SYMPHONY 98 

PEACE 99 

THE  OPEN  DOOR 100 

IMMORTAL  SAILS 102 

THE  MATIN-SONG  OF  FRIAR  TUCK   ....  103 

FIVE  CRITICISMS 105 

THE  COMPANIONS 114 

THE  LITTLE  ROADS 116 

SUNLIGHT  AND  SEA .  118 

THE  ROAD  THROUGH  CHAOS       .     .     .     .   -.  121 

W 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  LION 123 

THE  WAR  WIDOW 126 

THE  BELL 128 

SLAVE  AND  EMPEROR 132 

ON  A  MOUNTAIN-TOP 134 

EARLY  POEMS 

THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 139 

MICHAEL  OAKTREE 147 

TOUCHSTONE  ON  A  BUS 

TOUCHSTONE  ON  A  Bus 159 

I    THE  NEW  DUCKLING 160 

II    THE  MAN  WHO  DISCOVERED  THE  USE  OF 

A  CHAIR 161 

III  COTTON-WOOL 164 

IV  FASHIONS 166 

EPILOGUE 

THE  REWARD  OF  SONG 171 


[xi] 


THE  NEW  MORNING 


T 


THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES" 

HIS  is  the  song  of  the  wind  as  it  came 
Tossing  the  flags  of  the  nations  to  flame: 


I  am  the  breath  of  God.   I  am  His  laughter. 
I  am  His  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

So  it  descended,  at  night,  on  the  city. 

So  it  went  lavishing  beauty  and  pity, 

Lighting  the  lordliest  street  of  the  world 

With  half  of  the  banners  that  earth  has  unfurled; 

Over  the  lamps  that  are  brighter  than  stars. 

Laughing  aloud  on  its  way  to  the  wars, 

Proud  as  America,  sweeping  along 

Death  and  destruction  like  notes  in  a  song, 

Leaping  to  battle  as  man  to  his  mate, 

Joyous  as  God  when  he  moved  to  create, — 

Never  was  voice  of  a  nation  so  glorious, 
Glad  of  its  cause  and  afire  with  its  fate! 
Never  did  eagle  on  mightier  pinion 
Tower  to  the  height  of  a  brighter  dominion, 

[3] 


"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES" 

Kindling  the  hope  of  the  prophets  to  flame, 
Calling  aloud  on  the  deep  as  it  came, 

Cleave  me  a  way  for  an  army  with  banners. 
I  am  His  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

Know  you  the  meaning  of  all  they  are  doing? 
Know  you  the  light  that  their  soul  is  pursuing? 
Know  you  the  might  of  the  world  they  are  making, 
This  nation  of  nations  whose  heart  is  awaking? 
What  is  this  mingling  of  peoples  and  races? 
Look  at  the  wonder  and  joy  in  their  faces ! 
Look  how  the  folds  of  the  union  are  spreading! 
Look,  for  the  nations  are  come  to  their  wedding. 
How  shall  the  folk  of  our  tongue  be  afraid  of  it  ? 
England  was  born  of  it.     England  was  made  of  it, 
Made  of  this  welding  of  tribes  into  one, 
This  marriage  of  pilgrims  that  followed  the  sun! 
Briton  and  Roman  and  Saxon  were  drawn 
By  winds  of  this  Pentecost,  out  of  the  dawn, 
Westward,  to  make  her  one  people  of  many; 
But  here  is  a  union  more  mighty  than  any. 
Know  you  the  soul  of  this  deep  exultation  ? 
Know  you  the  word  that  goes  forth  to  this  nation? 

[4] 


"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES" 

1  am  the  breath  of  God.     I  am  His  Liberty. 
Let  there  be  light  over  all  His  creation. 

Over  this  Continent,  wholly  united, 

They  that  were  foemen  in  Europe  are  plighted. 

Here,  in  a  league  that  our  blindness  and  pride 

Doubted  and  flouted  and  mocked  and  denied, 

Dawns  the  Republic,  the  laughing,  gigantic      -* 

Europe,  united,  beyond  the  Atlantic. 

That  is  America,  speaking  one  tongue, 

Acting  her  epics  before  they  are  sung, 

Driving  her  rails  from  the  palms  to  the  snow, 

Through  States  that  are  greater  than  Emperors 

know, 

Forty-eight  States  that  are  empires  in  might, 
But  ruled  by  the  will  of  one  people  tonight, 
Nerved  as  one  body,  with  net-works  of  steel, 
Merging  their  strength  in  the  one  Commonweal, 
Brooking  no  poverty,  mocking  at  Mars, 
Building  their  cities  to  talk  with  the  stars. 
Thriving,  increasing  by  myriads  again 
Till  even  in  numbers  old  Europe  may  wane. 
How  shall  a  son  of  the  England  they  fought 
Fail  to  declare  the  full  pride  of  his  thought, 

[5] 


"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES" 

Stand  with  the  scoffers  who,  year  after  year, 
Bring  the  Republic  their  half-hidden  sneer? 
Now,  as  in  beauty  she  stands  at  our  side, 
Who  shall  withhold  the  full  gift  of  his  pride? 
Not  the  great  England  who  knows  that  her  son, 
Washington,  fought  her,  and  Liberty  won. 
England,   whose   names   like   the   stars   in   their 

station, 

Stand  at  the  foot  of  that  world's  Declaration, — 
Washington,    Livingston,    Langdon,    she    claims 

them, 

It  is  her  right  to  be  proud  when  she  names  them, 
Proud  of  that  voice  in  the  night  as  it  came, 
Tossing  the  flags  of  the  nations  to  flame: 

/  am  the  breath  of  God.     I  am  His  laughter. 
I  am  His  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

Flags,  in  themselves,  are  but  rags  that  are  dyed. 
Flags,  in  that  wind,  are  like  nations  enskied. 
See,  how  they  grapple  the  night  as  it  rolls 
And  trample  it  under  like  triumphing  souls. 
Over  the  city  that  never  knew  sleep, 
Look  at  the  riotous  folds  as  they  leap. 

[6] 


"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES" 

Thousands  of  tri-colors,  laughing  for  France, 
Ripple  and  whisper  and  thunder  and  dance; 
Thousands  of  flags  for  Great  Britain  aflame 
Answer  their  sisters  in  Liberty's  name. 
Belgium  is  burning  in  pride  overhead. 
Poland  is  near,  and  her  sunrise  is  red. 
Under  and  over,  and  fluttering  between, 
Italy  burgeons  in  red,  white,  and  green. 
See,  how  they  climb  like  adventurous  flowers, 
Over  the  tops  of  the  terrible  towers.  .  .   . 
There,  in  the  darkness,  the  glories  are  mated. 
There,  in  the  darkness,  a  world  is  created. 
There,  in  this  Pentecost,  streaming  on  high. 
There,  with  a  glory  of  stars  in  the  sky. 
There  the  broad  flag  of  our  union  and  liberty 
Rides  the  proud  night-wind  and  tyrannies  die. 


[7] 


ON  THE  WESTERN  FRONT 
(1916} 

i. 

I  FOUND  a  dreadful  acre  of  the  dead, 
Marked  with  the  only  sign  on  earth  that 

saves. 

The  wings  of  death  were  hurrying  overhead, 
The  loose  earth  shook  on  those  unquiet  graves; 

For  the  deep  gun-pits,  with  quick  stabs  of  flame, 

Made  their  own  thunders  of  the  sunlit  air; 
Yet,  as  I  read  the  crosses,  name  by  name, 

Mort  pour  la  France,  it  seemed  that  peace  was 

there; 
Sunlight  and  peace,  a  peace  too  deep  for  thought, 

The  peace  of  tides  that  underlie  our  strife, 
The  peace  with  which  the  moving  heavens  are 
fraught, 

The  peace  that  is  our  everlasting  life. 

The  loose  earth  shook.    The  very  hills  were  stirred. 
The  silence  of  the  dead  was  all  I  heard. 

[8] 


ON  THE  WESTERN  FRONT 

ii 

WE,  who  lie  here,  have  nothing  more  to  pray. 
To  all  your  praises  we  are  deaf  and  blind. 
We  may  not  even  know  if  you  betray 
Our  hope,  to  make  earth  better  for  mankind. 

Only  our  silence,  in  the  night,  shall  grow 
More  silent,  as  the  stars  grow  in  the  sky; 

And,  while  you  deck  our  graves,  you  shall  not  know 
How  many  scornful  legions  pass  you  by. 

For  we  have  heard  you  say  (when  we  were  living) 
That  some  small  dream  of  good  would  "cost 

too  much. " 
But  when  the  foe  struck,  we  have  watched  you 

giving, 

And  seen  you  move  the  mountains  with  one 
touch. 

What  can  be  done,  we  know.     But,  have  no  fear! 
If  you  fail  now,  we  shall  not  see  or  hear. 


[9] 


VICTORY 

(Written  after  the  British  Service  at  Trinity  Church,  New  York) 

I. 

BEFORE  those  golden  altar-lights  we  stood, 
Each  one  of  us  remembering  his  own  dead. 
A  more  than  earthly  beauty  seemed  to  brood 
On  that  hushed  throng,  and  bless  each  bending 
head. 

Beautiful  on  that  gold,\  the  deep-sea  blue 
Of  those  young  seamen,  ranked  on  either  side, 

Blent  with  the  khaki,  while  the  silence  grew 
Deep,  as  for  wings — Oh,  deep  as  England's  pride. 

Beautiful  on  that  gold,  two  banners  rose — 
Two  flags  that  told  how  Freedom's  realm  was 
made, 

One  fair  with  stars  of  hope,  and  one  that  shows 
The  glorious  cross  of  England's  long  crusade; 

Two  flags,  now  joined,  till  that  high  will  be  done 
Which  sent  them  forth  to  make  the  whole  world 
one. 

[10] 


VICTORY 

n. 

There  were  no  signs  of  joy  that  eyes  could  see. 

Our  hearts  were  all  three  thousand  miles  away. 
There  were  no  trumpets  blown  for  victory. 

A  million  dead  were  calling  us  that  day. 

And  eyes  grew  blind,  at  times;  but  grief  was  deep, 
Deeper  than  any  foes  or  friends  have  known; 

For  Oh,  my  country's  lips  are  locked  to  keep 
Her  bitterest  loss  her  own,  and  all  her  own. 

Only  the  music  told  what  else  was  dumb, 
The  funeral  march  to  which  our  pulses  beat; 

For  all  our  dead  went  by,  to  a  muffled  drum. 
We  heard  the  tread  of  all  those  phantom  feet 

Yes.     There  was  victory!     Deep  in  every  soul. 
We  heard  them  marching  to  their  unseen  goal. 

III. 

There,  once  again,  we  saw  the  Cross  go  by, 

The  Cross  that  fell  with  all  those  glorious  towers, 

Burnt  black  in  France  or  mocked  on  Calvary, 
Till — in  one  night — the  crosses  rose  like  flowers, 

[ii] 


VICTORY 

Legions  of  small  white  crosses,  mile  on  mile, 
6    Pencilled  with  names  that  had  outfought  all  pain, 
Where  every  shell-torn  acre  seems  to  smile — 
Who  shall  destroy  the  cross  that  rose  again? 

Out  of  the  world's  Walpurgis,  where  hope  perished, 
Where  all  the  forms  of  faith  in  ruin  fell, 

Where   every   sign    of  heaven   that    earth    had 

cherished 
Shrivelled  among  the  lava-floods  of  hell, 

The  eternal  Cross  that  conquers  might  with  right 
Rose  like  a  star  to  lead  us  through  the  night. 

IV. 

•i  How  shall  the  world  remember?     Men  forget: 

Our  dead  are  all  too  many  even  for  Fame! 
Man's  justice  kneels  to  kings,  and  pays  no  debt 
To  those  who  never  courted  her  acclaim. 

Cheat  not  your  heart  with  promises  to  pay 
For  gifts  beyond  all  price  so  freely  given. 

Where  is  the  heart  so  rich  that  it  can  say 
To  those  who   mourn,   "I   will   restore   your 
heaven"? 

[12] 


VICTORY 

But  these,  with  their  own  hands,  laid  up  their 

treasure 

Where  never  an  emperor  can  break  in  and  steal, 
Treasure    for   those   that    loved    them    past    all 

measure 
In  those  high  griefs  that  earth  can  never  heal, 

Proud  griefs,  that  walk  on  earth,  yet  gaze  above, 
Knowing  that  sorrow  is  but  remembered  love. ,. 


v. 

*f- 

Love  that  still  holds  us  with  immortal  power, 
Yet  cannot  lift  us  to  His  realm  of  light; 

Love  that  still  shows  us  heaven  for  one  brief  hour 
Only  to  daunt  the  heart  with  that  sheer  height; 

Love  that  is  made  of  loveliness  entire 

In  form  and  thought  and  act;  and  still  must 

shame  us 
Because  we  ever  acknowledge  and  aspire, 

And  yet  let  slip  the  shining  hands  that  claim  us. 

O,  if  this  Love  might  cloak  with  rags  His  glory, 
Laugh,  eat  and  drink,  and  dwell  with  suffering 
men 


VICTORY 

Sit  with  us  at  our  hearth,  and  hear  our  story, 
This  world — we  thought — might  be  transfigured 
then. 


"But  Oh,"   Love   answered,   with  swift  human 

\ 

tears, 
"All  these  things  have  I  done,  these  many  years." 


VI. 

, 
"This  day,"  Love  said,  "if  ye  will  hear  my  voice; 

I  mount  and  sing  with  birds  in  all  your  skies. 
I  am  the  soul  that  calls  you  to  rejoice. 
i  And  every  wayside  flower  is  my  disguise. 

"Look  closely.     Are  the  wings  too  wide  for  pity? 

Look  closely.     Do  these  tender  hues  betray? 
How  often  have  I  sought  my  Holy  City? 

How  often  have  ye  turned  your  hearts  away? 

"Is  there  not  healing  in  the  beauty  I  bring  you? 

Am  I  not  whispering  in  green  leaves  and  rain, 
Singing  in  all  that  woods  and  seas  can  sing  you? 

Look,  once,  on  Love,  and  earth  is  heaven  again. 


"O,  did  your  Spring  but  once  a  century  waken, 
The  heaven  of  heavens  for  this  would  be  forsaken. 

[14] 


VICTORY 

VII. 

There's  but  one  gift  that  all  our  dead  desire, 
One  gift  that  men  can  give,  and  that's  a  dream, 

Unless  we,  too,  can  burn  with  that  same  fire 
Of  sacrifice;  die  to  the  things  that  seem; 

Die  to  the  little  hatreds;  die  to  greed; 
•    Die  to  the  old  ignoble  selves  we  knew; 
Die  to  the  base  contempts  of  sect  and  creed, 
And  rise  again,  like  these,  with  souls  as  true. 

Nay  (since  these  died  before  their  task  was  fin- 
ished) 
Attempt  new  heights,  bring  even  their  dreams  to 

birth : — 

Build  us  that  better  world,  Oh,  not  diminished 
By  one  true  splendor  thac  they  planned  on  earth. 

And  that's  not  done  by  sword,  or  tongue,  or  pen, 
There's  but  one  way.    God  make  us  better 


AMERICAN  POEMS  1912-1917 


REPUBLIC  AND  MOTHERLAND 
(1912) 

(Written  after  entering  New  York  Harbor  at  Daybreak) 

UP  the  vast  harbor  with  the  morning  sun 
The  ship  swept  in  from  sea; 
Gigantic  towers  arose,  the  night  was  done, 
And — there  stood  Liberty. 

Silent,  the  great  torch  lifted  in  one  hand, 

The  dawn  in  her  proud  eyes, 
Silent,  for  all  the  shouts  that  vex  her  land, 

Silent,  hailing  the  skies; 

Hailing  that  mightier  Kingdom  of  the  Blest 

Our  seamen  sought  of  old, 

The  dream  that  lured  the   nations  through  the 
West, 

The  city  of  sunset  gold. 


Saxon  and  Norman  in  one  wedded  soul 

Shook  out  one  flag  like  fire; 
But  westward,  westward,  moved  the  gleaming  goal, 

Westward,  the  vast  desire. 


REPUBLIC  AND  MOTHERLAND 

Westward  and  ever  westward  ran  the  call, 

They  followed  the  pilgrim  sun, 
Seeking  that  land  which  should  enfold  them  all, 

And  weld  all  hearts  in  one. 

Here  on  this  mightier  continent  apart, 

Here  on  these  rolling  plains, 
Swells  the  first  throb  of  that  immortal  heart, 

The  pulse  of  those  huge  veins. 

Still,  at  these  towers,  our  Old-World  cities  jest, 

And  neither  hear  nor  see 
The  brood  of  gods  at  that  gigantic  breast, 

The  conquering  race  to  be. 

Chosen  from  many — for  no  sluggard  soul 

Confronts  that  night  of  stars — 
The  trumpets  of  the  last  Republic  roll 

Far\>ff,  an  end  to  wars; 

An  end,  an  end  to  that  wild  blood-red  age, 

That  made  and  keeps  us  blind; 
A  mightier  realm  shall  be  her  heritage, 

The  kingdom  of  mankind. 

[20] 


REPUBLIC  AND  MOTHERLAND 

Chosen  from  many  nations,  and  made  one; 

But  first,  O  Mother,  from  thee, 
When,  following,  following  on  that  Pilgrim  sun, 

Thy  Mayflower  crossed  the  sea. 


[21] 


THE  UNION 


YOU  that  have  gathered  together  the  sons  of 
all  races, 

And  welded  them  into  one, 
Lifting  the  torch  of  your  Freedom  on  hungering 

faces 
That  sailed  to  the  setting  sun; 

You  that  have  made  of  mankind  in  your  own 

proud  regions 
The  music  of  man  to  be, 
How  should  the  old  earth  sing  of  you,  now,  as  your 

legions 
Rise  to  set  all  men  free  ? 

How  should  the  singer  that  knew  the  proud  vision 

and  loved  it, 

In  the  days  when  not  all  men  knew, 
Gaze  through  his  tears,  on  the  light,  now  the 

world  has  approved  it; 
Or  dream,  when  the  dream  comes  true? 

[22] 


THE  UNION 

How  should  he  sing  when  the  Spirit  of  Freedom  in 

thunder 

Speaks,  and  the  wine-press  is  red; 
And  the  sea-winds  are  loud  with  the  chains  that 

are  broken  asunder 
And  nations  that  rise  from  the  dead? 

Flag  of  the  sky,  proud  flag  of  that  wide  com- 
munion, 

Too  mighty  for  thought  to  scan; 
Flag  of  the  many  in  one,  and  that  last  world-union 

That  kingdom  of  God  in  man; 

Ours  was  a  dream,  in  the  night,  of  that  last  federa- 
tion, 

But  yours  is  the  glory  unfurled — 
The  marshalled  nations  and  stars  that  shall  make 

one  nation 
One  singing  star  of  the  world. 


[23] 


r  GHOSTS  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD 

"  There  are  no  ghosts  in  America." 

THERE  are  no  ghosts,  you  say, 
To  haunt  her  blaze  of  light; 
No  shadows  in  her  day, 
No  phantoms  in  her  night. 
Columbus'  tattered  sail 
Has  passed  beyond  our  hail. 

What?    On  that  magic  coast, 
Where  Raleigh  fought  with  fate, 

Or  where  that  Devon  ghost 
Unbarred  the  Golden  Gate, 

No  dark,  strange,  ear-ringed  men 

Beat  in  from  sea  again? 

No  ghosts  in  Salem  town 
With  silver  buckled  shoon? 

No  lovely  witch  to  drown 
Or  burn  beneath  the  moon? 

Not  even  a  whiff  of  tea, 

On  Boston's  glimmering  quay. 

[24] 


GHOSTS  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD 

O,  ghostly  Spanish  walls, 

Where  brown  Franciscans  glide, 

Is  there  no  voice  that  calls 
Across  the  Great  Divide, 

To  pilgrims  on  their  way 

Along  the  Santa  Fe? 

Then  let  your  Pullman  cars 

Go  roaring  to  the  West, 
Till,  watched  by  lonelier  stars, 

The  cactus  lifts  its  crest. 
There,  on  that  painted  plain, 
One  ghost  will  rise  again. 

Majestic  and  forlorn, 

Wreck  of  a  dying  race, 
The  Red  Man,  half  in  scorn, 

Shall  raise  his  haughty  face, 
Inscrutable  as  the  sky, 
To  watch  our  ghosts  go  by. 

What?  Is  earth  dreaming  still? 

Shall  not  the  night  disgorge 
The  ghosts  of  Bunker  Hill 

The  ghosts  of  Valley  Forge, 

[25] 


GHOSTS  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Or,  England's  mightiest  son, 
The  ghost  of  Washington  ? 

No  ghosts  where  Lincoln  fell? 

No  ghosts  for  seeing  eyes  ? 
I  know  an  old  cracked  bell 

Shall  make  ten  million  rise 
When  one  immortal  ghost 
Calls  to  the  slumbering  host. 


[26] 


'  THE  OLD  MEETING  HOUSE 

(New  Jersey,  1918) 

ITS  quiet  graves  were  made  for  peace  till  Gabriel 
blows  his  horn. 

Those  wise  old  elms  could  hear  no  cry 
Of  all  that  distant  agony — 

Only  the  red-winged  blackbird,  and  the  rustle  of 
thick  ripe  corn. 

The  blue  jay,  perched  upon  that  bronze,  with 

bright  unweeting  eyes, 
Could  never  read  the  names  that  signed 
The  noblest  charter  of  mankind; 
But  all  of  them  were  names  we  knew  beneath  our 
English  skies. 

And    on   the   low   gray   headstones,   with   their 

crumbling  weather-stains, 
— Though  cardinal  birds,  like  drops  of  blood, 
Flickered  across  the  haunted  wood, — 
e  names  you'd  see  were  names  that  woke  like 
flowers  in  English  lanes. 

[27] 


• 
Th 


THE  OLD  MEETING  HOUSE 

John  Applegate  was  fast  asleep;  and  Temperance 

Olden,  too. 

And  David  Worth  had  quite  forgot 
If  Hannah's  lips  were  red  or  not; 
And  Prudence  veiled  her  eyes  at  last,  as  Prudence 
ought  to  do. 

And  when,  across  that  patch  of  heaven,  that  small 

blue  leaf-edged  space 
At  times,  a  droning  airplane  went, 
No  flicker  of  astonishment 

Could  lift  the  heavy  eyelids  on  one  gossip's  up- 
turned face. 

For  William  Speakman  could  not  tell — so  thick 

the  grasses  grow — 

If  that  strange  humming  in  the  sky  , 

Meant  that  the  Judgment  Day  were  nigh, 
Or  if  'twas  but  the  summer  bees  that  blundered  to 
and  fro. 

And   then,   across   the   breathless  wood,   a   Bell 

began  to  sound, 

The  only  Bell  that  wakes  the  dead, 
And  Stockton  Signer  raised  his  head, 
And  called  to  all  the  deacons  in  the  ancient  burial- 
ground. 

[28] 


THE  OLD  MEETING  HOUSE 

"The  Bell,  the  Bell  is  ringing!   Give  me  back  my 

rusty  sword. 

Though  I  thought  the  wars  were  done, 
Though  I  thought  our  peace  was  won, 
Yet  I  signed  the  Declaration,  and  the  dead  must 
keep  their  word. 

"There's  only  one  great  ghost  I  know  could  make 

that  'larum  ring. 
It's  the  captain  that  we  knew 
In  the  ancient  buff  and  blue, 
It's  our  Englishman,  George  Washington,  who 
fought  the  German  king!" 

So  the  sunset  saw  them  mustering  beneath  their 

brooding  boughs, 
Ancient  shadows  of  our  sires, 
Kindling  with  the  ancient  fires, 
While  the  old  cracked  Bell  to  southward  shook  the 
ancient  meeting  house. 


[29] 


PRINCETON 


The  first  four  lines  of  this  poem  were  written  for  inscription  on  the 
first  joint  memorial  to  the  American  and  British  soldiers  who  fell  in 
the  Revolutionary  War.  This  memorial  was  recently  dedicated  at 
Princeton. 

I. 

T  IT  ERE  Freedom  stood,   by  slaughtered  friend 

•*-  -*-  and  joe  y 

And  ere  the  wrath  paled  or  that  sunset  died, 
Looked  through  the  ages:   then,  with  eyes  aglow, 
Laid  them,  to  wait  that  future,  side  by  side. 

II. 

Now  lamp-lit  gardens  in  the  blue  dusk  shine 

Through  dog-wood  red  and  white, 
And  round  the  gray  quadrangles,  line  by  line, 

The  windows  fill  with  light, 

Where   Princeton   calls   to   Magdalen,   tower  to 
tower, 

Twin  lanthorns  of  the  law, 
And  those  cream-white  magnolia  boughs  embower 

The  halls  of  old  Nassau. 

[30] 


PRINCETON 

in. 

The  dark  bronze  tigers  crouch  on  either  side 

Where  red-coats  used  to  pass, 
And   round   the   bird-loved  house  where  Mercer 
died 

And  violets  dusk  the  grass, 
By  Stony  Brook  that  ran  so  red  of  old, 

But  sings  of  friendship  now, 
To  feed  the  old  enemy's  harvest  fifty-fold 

The  green  earth  takes  the  plough. 

IV. 

Through  this  May  night  if  one  great  ghost  should 
stray 

With  deep  remembering  eyes, 
Where  that  old  meadow  of  battle  smiles  away 

Its  blood-stained  memories, 
If  Washington  should  walk,  where  friend  and  foe 

Sleep  and  forget  the  past, 

Be   sure   his    unquenched    heart   would   leap  to 
know 

Their  hosts  are  joined  at  last. 


PRINCETON 

v. 

Be  sure  he  walks,  in  shadowy  buff  and  blue, 

Where  those  dim  lilacs  wave, 
He   bends   his   head   to    bless,   as   dreams   come 
true, 

The  promise  of  that  grave, 

Then    with    a    vaster    hope    than    thought    can 
scan, 

Touching  his  ancient  sword, 
Prays  for  that  mightier  realm  of  God  in  man, 

"Hasten  Thy  Kingdom,  Lord. 

VI. 

"Land  of  new  hope,  land  of  the  singing  stars, 

Type  of  the  world  to  be, 
The  vision  of  a  world  set  free  from  wars 

Takes  life,  takes  form,  from  thee, 
Where  all  the  jarring  nations  of  this  earth, 

Beneath  the  all-blessing  sun, 
Bring  the  new  music  of  mankind  to  birth, 

And  make  the  whole  world  one. " 


[32] 


PRINCETON 

VII. 

And  those  old  comrades  rise  around  him  there, 

Old  foemen,  side  by  side, 
With  eyes  like  stars  upon  the  brave  night-air, 

And  young  as  when  they  died, 
To  hear  your  bells,  O  beautiful  Princeton  towers, 

Ring  for  the  world's  release. 

They  see  you,  piercing  like  gray  swords  through 
flowers, 

And  smile  from  hearts  at  peace. 


[33) 


BEETHOVEN  IN  CENTRAL  PARK 

(After  a  glimpse  of  a  certain  monument  in  New  York,  during  the 
Victory  Celebration) 

THE  thousand-windowed  towers  were  all  a- 
light. 

Throngs  of  all  nations  filled  that  glittering 
way; 

And,  rich  with  dreams  of  the  approaching  day, 
Flags  of  all  nations  trampled  down  the  night. 
No  clouds,  at  sunset,  die  in  airs  as  bright. 
No  clouds,  at  dawn,  awake  in  winds  as  gay; 
For  Freedom  rose  in  that  august  array, 
Crowned  with  the  stars  and  weaponed  for  the 
right. 

Then,  in  a  place  of  whispering  leaves  and  gloom, 
I  saw,  too  dark,  too  dumb  for  bronze  or  stone, 
One  tragic  head  that  bowed  against  the  sky; 

O,  in  a  hush  too  deep  for  any  tomb 
I  saw  Beethoven,  dreadfully  alone 

With  his  own  grief,  and  his  own  majesty. 

[34] 


SONGS  OF  THE  TRAWLERS  AND   SEA 
POEMS 


THE  PEOPLE'S  FLEET 

OUT  of  her  darkened  fishing-ports  they  go, 
A  fleet  of  little  ships,  whose  every  name — 
Daffodil,  Sea-lark,  Rose  and  Surf  and  Snowy 
Burns  in  this  blackness  like  an  altar-flame; 

Out  of  her  past  they  sail,  three  thousand  strong, 
The  people's  fleet  that  never  knew  its  worth, 

And  every  name  is  a  broken  phrase  of  song 
To  some  remembered  loveliness  on  earth. 

There's  Barbara  Cowie,  Comely  Bank  and  May, 
Christened,  at  home,  in  worlds  of  dawn  and  dew: 

There's  Ruth  and  Kindly  Light  and  Robin  Gray 
With  Mizpah.     (May  that  simple  prayer  come 
true!) 

Out  of  old  England's  inmost  heart  they  sail, 
A  fleet  of  memories  that  can  never  fail. 


[37] 


KILMENY 

DARK,  dark  lay  the  drifters  against  the  red 
West, 

As  they  shot  their  long  meshes  of  steel  overside; 
And  the  oily  green  waters  were  rocking  to  rest 

When  Kilmeny  went  out,  at  the  turn  of  the  tide; 
And  nobody  knew  where  that  lassie  would  roam, 
For  the  magic  that  called  her  was  tapping  un- 
seen. 

It  was  well-nigh  a  week  ere  Kilmeny  came  home, 
And  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 

She'd  a  gun  at  her  bow  that  was  Newcastle's  best, 

And  a  gun  at  her  stern  that  was  fresh  from  the 

Clyde, 
And  a  secret  her  skipper  had  never  confessed, 

Not  even  at  dawn,  to  his  newly-wed  bride; 
And  a  wireless  that  whispered  above,  like  a  gnome, 

The  laughter  of  London,  the  boasts  of  Berlin. .  .  . 
O,  it  may  have  been  mermaids  that  lured  her  from 
home; 

But  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 

[38] 


KILMENY 

It  was  dark  when  Kilmeny  came  home  from  her 

quest 
With  her  bridge  dabbled  red  where  her  skipper 

had  died; 
But  she  moved  like  a  bride  with  a  rose  at  her 

breast, 
And  Well  done  Kilmeny!  the  Admiral  cried. 

Now,  at  sixty-four  fathom  a  conger  may  come 
And  nose  at  the  bones  of  a  drowned  submarine; 

But — late  in  the  evening  Kilmeny  came  home, 
And  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 

There's  a  wandering  shadow  that  stares  at  the 

foam, 
Though  they  sing  all  the  night  to  old  England, 

their  queen. 

Late,  late  in  the  evening,  Kilmeny  came  home; 
And  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 


[39] 


CAP'N  STORM-ALONG 

THEY  are  buffeting  out  in  the  bitter  grey 
weather, 

Blow  the  man  down,  bullies,  blow  the  man  down! 
Sea-lark  singing  to  Golden  Feathery 

And  burly  blue  waters  all  swelling  aroun*. 
There's     Thunderstone    butting    ahead    as    they 

wallow, 

With  death  in  the  mesh  of  their  deep-sea  trawl; 
There's  Night-Hawk  swooping  by  wild  Sea-swallow; 
And  old  Cap'n  Storm-along  leading  'em  all. 

Bashing  the  seas  to  a  welter  of  white. 
Look  at  the  fleet  that  he  leads  to  the  fight. 
O,  they're  dancing  like  witches  to  open  the  ball; 
And  old  Cap'n  Storm-along  s  lord  of  'em  all. 

Now,  where  have  you  seen  such  a  bully  old  sailor? 

His  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the  scarf  at  his  throat; 
And  he  rolls  on  the  bridge  of  his  broad-beamed 
whaler, 

In  yellow  sou'wester  and  oil-skin  coat. 

[40] 


CAP'N  STORM-ALONG 

In  trawler  and  drifter,  in  dinghy  and  dory, 
Wherever  he  signals,  they  leap  to  his  call; 

They  batter  the  seas  to  a  lather  of  glory, 
With  old  Cap'n  Storm-along  leading  'em  all. 

You'll  find  he's  from  Devon,  the  sailor  I  mean, 
Look  at  his  whaler  now,  shipping  it  green. 
0,  Fritz  and  his  "  U' '  boat  must  crab  it  and  crawl 
When  old  Cap'n  Storm-along  sails  to  the  ball. 

Ay,  there  is  the  skipper  that  knows  how  to  scare 

'em. 

Blow  the  man  down,  bullies,  blow  the  man  down! 
Look  at  the  sea-wives  he  keeps  in  his  harem, 

Wicked  young  merry-maids,  buxom  and  brown: 
There's   Rosalind,   the   sea-witch,   and   Gipsy   so 

lissom, 

All  dancing  like  ducks  in  the  teeth  of  the  squall, 
With  a  bright  eye  for  Huns,  and  a  Hotchkiss  to 

kiss  'em; 
For  old  Cap'n  Storm-along's  lord  of  'em  all. 

Look  at  him,  battering  darkness  to  light! 

Look  at  the  fleet  that  he  leads  to  the  fight! 

0,  hearts  that  are  mighty,  in  ships  that  are  small, 

Your  old  Cap'n  Storm-along  s  lord  of  us  all. 

[41] 


T 


THE  BIG  BLACK  TRAWLER 

HE  very  best  ship  that  ever  I  knew 

— Ah-way  0,  to  me  0 — 
Was  a  big  black  trawler  with  a  deep-sea 
crew — 

Sing,  my  bullies,  let  the  bullgine  run. 

There  was  one  old  devil  with  a  broken  nose 

— Ah-way  0,  to  me  0 — 
He  was  four  score  years,  as  I  suppose — 
But,  sing,  my  bullies,  let  the  bullgine  run. 

We  was  wrecked  last  March,  in  a  Polar  storm 

— Ah-way  0,  to  me  0 — 
And  we  asked  the  old  cripple  if  his  feet  was  warm — 

Sing,  my  bullies,  let  the  bullgine  run. 

And  the  old,  old  devil  (he  was  ninety  at  the  most) 

— Ah-way  0,  to  me  0 — 
Roars,  "Ay,  warm  as  a  lickle  piece  of  toast" — 

So  sing,  my  bullies,  let  the  bullgine  run. 

[42] 


THE  BIG  BLACK  TRAWLER 

"For  I  soaked  my  sea-boots  and  my  dungarees 

— Ah-way  0,  to  me  0 — 

In   the   good    salt   water   that   the   Lord    don't 
freeze" — 

Ohy  sing,  my  bullies,  let  the  bullgine  run. 


[431 


NAMESAKES 

BUT  where's  the  brown  drifter  that  went  out 
alone  ? 

— Roll  and  go,  and  fare  you  well — 
Was    her   name    Peggy   Nutten?    That  name   is 

my  own. 

Fare  you  well,  my  sailor. 

They  sang  in  the  dark,  "Let  her  go!  Let  her  go!" 
And  she  sailed  to  the  West,  where  the  broad  waters 

flow; 
And  the  others  come  back,  but  .  .  .  the  bitter 

winds  blow. 
Ah,  fare  you  well,  my  sailor. 

The  women,  at  evening,  they  wave  and  they  cheer. 

— Roll  and  go,  and  fare  you  well — 
They're  waiting  to  welcome  their  lads  at  the  pier. 

Fare  you  well,  my  sailor. 

They're  all  coming  home  in  the  twilight  below; 
But  there's  one  little  boat  .  .  .  Let  her  go!     Let 

her  go! 
She  carried  my  heart,  and  a  heart  for  the  foe. 

Ah,  fare  you  well,  my  sailor. 

[441 


NAMESAKES 

The  Nell  and  the  Maggie,  the  Ruth  and  the  Joan, 

— Roll  and  go,  and  fare  you  well — 
They  come  to  their  namesakes,  and  leave  me  alone. 

Fare  you  well,  my  sailor. 
And  names  are  kep'  dark,  for  the  spies  mustn't 

know; 

But  they'll  look  in  my  face,  an*  I  think  it  will  show; 
Peggy  Nutten's  my  name.     Let  her  go!     let  her 
go! 

Ah,  fare  you  well,  my  sailor. 


[45] 


WIRELESS 

NOW  to  those  who  search  the  deep, 
Gleam  of  Hope  and  Kindly  Light, 
Once,  before  you  turn  to  sleep, 

Breathe  a  message  through  the  night. 
Never  doubt  that  they'll  receive  it. 
Send  it,  once,  and  you'll  believe  it. 

Wrecks  that  burn  against  the  stars, 
Decks  where  death  is  wallowing  green, 

Snare  the  breath  among  their  spars, 
Hear  the  flickering  threads  between, 

Quick,  through  all  the  storms  that  blind  them, 

Quick  with  words  that  rush  to  find  them. 

Think  you  these  aerial  wires 

Whisper  more  than  spirits  may? 
Think  you  that  our  strong  desires 

Touch  no  distance  when  we  pray? 
Think  you  that  no  wings  are  flying 
'Twixt  the  living  and  the  dying? 

[46] 


WIRELESS 

Inland,  here,  upon  your  knees, 

You  shall  breathe  from  urgent  lips, 

Round  the  ships  that  guard  your  seas, 
Fleet  on  fleet  of  angel  ships; 

Yea,  the  guarded  may  so  bless  them 

That  no  terrors  can  distress  them. 

You  shall  guide  the  darkling  prow, 
Kneeling  thus — and  far  inland — 

You  shall  touch  the  storm-beat  brow 
Gently  as  a  spirit-hand. 

Even  a  blindfold  prayer  may  speed  them, 

And  a  little  child  may  lead  them. 


[47] 


FISHERS  OF  MEN 

ONG,  long  ago  He  said, 
He  who  could  wake  the  dead, 
And  walk  upon  the  sea — 
"  Come,  follow  Me. 

"Leave  your  brown  nets  and  bring 
Only  your  hearts  to  sing, 
Only  your  souls  to  pray, 
Rise,  come  away. 

"Shake  out  your  spirit-sails, 
And  brave  those  wilder  gales, 
And  I  will  make  you  then 
Fishers  of  men. " 

Was  this,  then,  what  He  meant? 
Was  this  His  high  intent, 

After  two  thousand  years 

Of  blood  and  tears  ? 

[48] 


FISHERS  OF  MEN 

God  help  us,  if  we  fight 
For  right,  and  not  for  might. 

God  help  us  if  we  seek 

To  shield  the  weak. 

Then,  though  His  heaven  be  far 
From  this  blind  welter  of  war, 

He'll  bless  us,  on  the  sea 

From  Calvary. 


149] 


o 


AN  OPEN  &OAT 

WHAT  is  that  whimpering   there    in   the 

darkness? 
"Let  him  lie  in  my  arms.     He  is  breathing,  I 

know. 
Look.    I'll  wrap  all  my  hair  round  his  neck. " — 

"  The  sea's  rising, 

The   boat   must   be   lightened.     He's   dead.     He 
must  go. " 

See — quick — by  that  flash,  where  the  bitter  foam 

tosses, 

The  cloud  of  white  faces,  in  the  black  open  boat, 
And  the  wild  pleading  woman  that  clasps  her  dead 

lover 

And  wraps  her  loose  hair  round  his  breast  and 
his  throat. 

"Come,  lady,  he's  dead."    "No,  I  feel  his  heart 

beating. 
He's  living,  I  know.  But  he's  numbed  with  the  cold. 

bo] 


AN  OPEN  BOAT 

See,  I'm  wrapping  my  hair  all  around  him  to  warm 

him" 

— "No.     We  cant  keep  the  dead,  dear.     Come, 
loosen  your  hold. 

"Come.     Loosen  your  fingers." — "0  God,  let  me 

keep  him!" 
O,  hide  it,  black  night!     Let  the  winds  have 

their  way! 
For   there   are   no   voices   or   ghosts   from    that 

darkness, 
To  fret  the  bare  seas  at  the  breaking  of  day. 


PEACE  IN  A  PALACE 

YOU   were   weeping  in  the  night,"    said  the 
Emperor, 

"Weeping  in  your  sleep,  I  am  told." 
"It  was  nothing  but  a  dream,"  said  the  Empress; 

But  her  face  grew  gray  and  old. 
"You    thought    you    saw    our    German    God 

defeated  ? " 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said.     "I  saw  no  lightnings  fall. 
I  dreamed  of  a  whirlpool  of  green  water, 

Where  something  had  gone  down.     That  was  all. 

"All  but  the  whimper  of  the  sea  gulls  flyingt 

Endlessly  round  and  round, 
Waiting  for  the  faces,  the  faces  from  the  darkness, 

The  dreadful  rising  faces  of  the  drowned. 

"It  was  nothing  but  a  dream,"  said  the  Empress. 

"I  thought  I  was  walking  on  the  sea; 
And  the  foam  rushed  up  in  a  wild  smother, 

And  a  crowd  of  little  faces  looked  at  me. 

[52] 


PEACE  IN  A  PALACE 

They   were    drowning!    They   were    drowning," 

said  the  Empress, 
"And  they  stretched  their  feeble  arms  to  the 

sky; 
But  the  worst  was — they  mistook  me  for  their 

mother, 
And  cried  as  my  children  used  to  cry. 

"Nothing  but  a  whimper  of  the  sea-gulls  flying. 

Endlessly  round  and  round. 

With  the  cruel  yellow  beaks  that  were  waiting  for  the 
faces, 

The  little  floating  faces  of  the  drowned" 

"It  was  nothing  but  a  dream,"  said  the  Emperor, 
"So  why  should  you  weep,  dear,  eh?" — 

"Oh,  I  saw  the  red  letters  on  a  life  belt 
That  the  green  sea  washed  my  way!" — 

"What  were  they?"  said  the  Emperor.     "What 

were  they?" — 

"Some  of  them  were  hidden, "  said  the  Empress, 
"But  I  plainly  saw  the  L  and  the  u!" 

"In  God's  name,  stop!"  said  the  Emperor. 
"You  told  me  that  it  was  not  true! 

[53] 


PEACE  IN  A  PALACE 

"  Told  me  that  you  dreamed  of  the  sea  gulls  flying, 

Endlessly  round  and  round, 
Waiting  for  the  faces,  and  the  eyes  in  the  faces, 

The  eyes  of  the  children  that  we  drowned. 

"Kiss  me  and  forget  it,"  said  the  Emperor, 

"Dry  your  tears  on  the  tassel  of  my  sword. 
I  am  going  to  offer  peace  to  my  people, 

And  abdicate,  perhaps,  as  overlord. 
I  shall  now  take  up  My  Cross  as  Count  of  Prussia — 

Which  is  not  a  heavy  burden,  you'll  agree. 
Why,  before  the  twenty  million  dead  are  rotten 

There'll  be  yachting  days  again  for  you  and  me. 

Cheer  up! 
It  would  mean  a  rope  for  anyone  but  Me." 

"Oh,  take  care!1'  said  the  Empress.     "They  are 

flying, 

Endlessly  round  and  round. 
They  have  finished  with  the  faces,  the  dreadful  little 

faces, 
The  little  eyeless  faces  of  the  drowned. " 


[54] 


H 


JTHE  VINDICTIVE 

OW  should  we  praise  those  lads  of  the  old 

Vindictive 

Who  looked  Death  straight  in  the  eyes, 
Till  his  gaze  fell, 
In  those  red  gates  of  hell  ? 

England,  in  her  proud  history,  proudly  enrolls 

them, 

And  the  deep  night  in  her  remembering  skies 
With  purer  glory 
Shall  blazon  their  grim  story. 

There  were  no  throngs  to  applaud  that  hushed 

adventure. 
They  were  one  to  a  thousand  on  that  fierce 

emprise. 

The  shores  they  sought 
Were  armoured,  past  all  thought. 

O,  they  knew  fear,  be  assured,  as  the  brave  must 
know  it, 

Issl 


THE  VINDICTIVE 

With  youth  and  its  happiness  bidding  their  last 

good-byes; 

Till  thoughts,  more  dear 
Than  life,  cast  out  all  fear. 

For  if,   as  we  think,  they  remembered  the 

brown-roofed  homesteads, 

And  the  scent  of  the  hawthorn  hedges  when  day- 
light dies, 

Old  happy  places, 

Young  eyes  and  fading  faces; 

One  dream  was  dearer  that  night  than  the  best  of 

their  boyhood, 
One  hope  more  radiant  than  any  their  hearts 

could  prize. 

The  touch  of  your  hand, 
The  light  of  your  face,  England ! 

So,  age  to  age  shall  tell  how  they  sailed  through 

the  darkness 
Where,  under  those  high,  austere,  implacable 

stars, 

Not  one  in  ten 
Might  look  for  a  dawn  again. 

[56] 


THE  VINDICTIVE 

They    saw    the    ferry-boats,    Iris    and    Daffodil, 

creeping 
Darkly  as  clouds  to  the  shimmering  mine-strewn 

bars, 

Flash  into  light! 
Then  thunder  reddened  the  night. 

The  wild  white  swords  of  the  search-lights  blinded 

and  stabbed  them, 
The  sharp  black  shadows  fought  in  fantastic 

wars. 

Black  waves  leapt  whitening, 
Red  decks  were  washed  with  lightning. 

But,  under  the  twelve-inch  guns  of  the  black  land- 
batteries 
The  hacked  bright  hulk,  in  a  glory  of  crackling 

spars, 

Moved  to  her  goal 
Like  an  immortal  soul; 

That,  while  the  raw  rent  flesh  in  a  furnace  is 

tortured, 

Reigns  by  a  law  no  agony  ever  can  shake, 
And  shines  in  power 
Above  all  shocks  of  the  hour. 

[571 


THE  VINDICTIVE 

0,  there,  while  the  decks  ran  blood,  and  the  star- 
shells  lightened 
The  old  broken  ship  that  the  enemy  never  could 

break, 

Swept  through  the  fire 
And  grappled  her  heart's  desire. 

There,  on  a  wreck  that  blazed  with  the  soul  of 

England, 
The  lads  that  died  in  the  dark  for  England's 

sake 

Knew,  as  they  died, 
Nelson  was  at  their  side; 

Nelson,  and  all  the  ghostly  fleets  of  his  island, 
Fighting  beside  them  there,  and  the  soul  of 

Drake  !— 

Dreams,  as  we  knew, 
Till  these  lads  made  them  true. 

How  should  we  praise  you,  lads  of  the  old  Vindictive, 
Who  looked  death  straight  in  the  eyesy 
Till  his  gaze  fell 
In  those  red  gates  of  hell? 

[58] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE    CHIMNEY-SWEEPS    OF    CHELTEN- 
HAM 

WHEN  hawthorn  buds  are  creaming  white, 
And  the  red  foolscap  all  stuck  with  may, 
Then  lasses  walk  with  eyes  alight, 

And  it's  chimney-sweepers'  dancing  day. 

For  the  chimney-sweeps  of  Cheltenham  town, 

Sooty  of  face  as  a  swallow  of  wing, 
Come  whistling,  singing,  dancing  down 

With  white  teeth  flashing  as  they  sing. 

And  Jack-in-the  green,  by  a  clown  in  blue, 
Walks  like  a  two-legged  bush  of  may, 

With  the  little  wee  lads  that  wriggled  up  the  flue 
Ere  Cheltenham  town  cried  "dancing  day." 

For  brooms  were  short  and  the  chimneys  tall, 
And  the  gipsies  caught  'em  these  black-birds 

cheap, 

So  Cheltenham  bought  them,  spry  and  small, 
And  shoved  them  up  in  the  dark  to  sweep. 
[61] 


THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPS 

For  Cheltenham  town  was  cruel  of  old, 
But  she  has  been  gathering  garlands  gay, 

And  the  little  wee  lads  are  in  green  and  gold, 
For  it's  chimney-sweepers'  dancing  day. 

And  red  as  a  rose,  and  blue  as  the  sky, 

With  teeth  as  white  as  their  faces  are  black, 

The  master-sweeps  go  dancing  by, 

With  a  gridiron  painted  on  every  back. 

But  when  they  are  ranged  in  the  market-place, 
The  clown's  wife  comes  with  an  iron  spoon, 

And  cozens  a  penny  for  her  sweet  face 
To  keep  their  golden  throats  in  tune. 

Then,  hushing  the  riot  of  that  mad  throng, 
And  sweet  as  the  voice  of  a  long-dead  May, 

A  wandering  pedlar  lifts  'em  a  song, 
Of  chimney-sweepers'  dancing  day; 

And  the  sooty  faces,  they  try  to  recall.  .  .  . 
As   they   gather   around   in   their   spell-struck 

rings.  .  .  . 

But  nobody  knows  that  singer  at  all 
Or  the  curious  old-time  air  he  sings: — 
[62] 


THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPS 

Why  are  you  dancing,  O  chimney-sweeps  of  Chel- 
tenham, 
And  where  did  you  win  you  these  may-coats  so 

fine; 
For  some  are  red  as  roses,  and  some  are  gold  as 

daffodils, 

But  who,  ah,  who  remembers,  now,  a  little  lad 
of  mine? 

Lady,  we   are    dancing,   as    we    danced    in    old 

England 
When  the  may  was  more  than  may,  very  long 

ago: 
As  for  our  may-coats,  it  was  your  white  hands, 

lady, 

Filled  our  sooty  hearts  and  minds  with  blossom, 
white  as  snow. 

It  was  a  beautiful  face  we  saw,  wandering  through 

Cheltenham. 

It  was  a  beautiful  song  we  heard,  very  far  away, 
Weeping  for  a  little  lad  stolen  by  the  gipsies, 
Broke  our  hearts  and  filled  'em  with  the  glory 
of  the  may. 

[63] 


THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPS 

Many   a   little   lad   had    we,  chirruping   in   the 

chimney-tops, 
Twirling  out  a  sooty  broom,  a  blot  against  the 

blue. 
Ah,  but  when  we  called  to  him,  and  when  he  saw 

and  ran  to  her, 

All  our  winter  ended,  and  our  world  was  made 
anew. 

Then  she  gave  us  may-coats  of  gold  and  green  and 

crimson, 
Then,  with  a  long  garland,  she  led  our  hearts 

away, 
Whispering,    "Remember,    though    the    boughs 

forget  the  hawthorn, 

Yet  shall  I  return  to  you,  that  was  your  lady 
May."- 

But  why  are  you  dancing  now,  O  chimney-sweeps 

of  Cheltenham, 

And  why  are  you  singing  of  a  May  that  is  fled  ? — 
O,  there's  music  to  be  born,  though  we  pluck  the 

old  fiddle-strings, 

And  a  world's  May  awaking  where  the  fields 
lay  dead. 

[64] 


THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPS 

And  we  dance,  dance,  dreaming  of  a  lady  most 

beautiful 
That  shall  walk  the  green  valleys  of  this  dark 

earth  one  day, 
And   call  to   us   gently,   "O  chimney-sweeps  of 

Cheltenham, 

I   am  looking  for  my  children.     Awake,   and 
come  away." 


L6S] 


%  TO  A  SUCCESSFUL  MAN 
(What  the  Ghosts  Said) 

AND  after  all  the  labour  and  the  pains, 
After  the  heaping  up  of  gold  on  gold, 
After  success  that  locked  your  feet  in  chains, 
And  left  you  with  a  heart  so  tired  and  old, 

Strange — is  it  not  ? — to  find  your  chief  desire 
Is  what  you  might  have  had  for  nothing  then- 

The  face  of  love  beside  a  cottage  fire 

And  friendly  laughter  with  your  fellow-men  ? 

You  were  so  rich  when  fools  esteemed  you  poor. 

You  ruled  a  field  that  kings  could  never  buy; 
The  glory  of  the  sea  was  at  your  door; 

And  all  those  quiet  stars  were  in  your  sky. 

The  nook  of  ferns  below  the  breathless  wood 
Where  one  poor  book  could  unlock  Paradise  .  . 

What  will  you  give  us  now  for  that  lost  good? 
Better  forget.     You  cannot  pay  the  price. 

[66] 


TO  A  SUCCESSFUL  MAN 

You  left  them  for  the  fame  in  which  you  trust. 

But  youth,  and  hope — did  you  forsake  them, 

too? 
Courage!   When  dust  at  length  returns  to  dust, 

In  your  last  dreams  they  may  come  back  to  you. 


[67] 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN  WITH  THE  AMBER 
SNUFF-BOX 

r  i  1HE  old  gentleman,  tapping  his  amber  snuff-box 
J-       (A  heart-shaped  snuff-box  with  a  golden  clasp} 
Stared  at  the  dying  fire.     "I'd  like  them  all 
To  understand,  when  I  am  gone, "  he  muttered. 
"But  how  to  do  it  delicately!     I  cant 
Apologize.     I'll  hint  at  it  .  .  .  in  verse; 
And,  to  be  sure  that  Rosalind  reads  it  through, 
I'll  make  it  an  appendix  to  my  will! " 
— Still  cynical,  you  see.     He  couldn't  help  it. 
He  had  seen  much,  felt  much.     He  snapped  the 

snuff-box, 

Shook  his  white  periwig,  trimmed  a  long  quill  pen, 
And  then  began  to  write,  most  carefully, 
These  couplets,  in  the  old  heroic  style: — 

O,  had  I  known  in  boyhood,  only  known 
The  few  sad  truths  that  time  has  made  my  own, 
I  had  not  lost  the  best  that  youth  can  give, 
Nay,  life  itself,  in  learning  how  to  live. 

[68] 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN 

This  laboring  heart  would  not  be  tired  so  soon, 
This  jaded  blood  would  jog  to  a  livelier  tune: 
And  some  few  friends,  could  I  begin  again, 
Should    know   more   happiness,    and    much    less 

pain. 

I  should  not  wound  in  ignorance,  nor  turn 
In  foolish  pride  from  those  for  whom  I  yearn. 
I  should   have   kept  nigh   half  the   friends  I've 

lost, 
And  held  for  dearest  those  I  wronged  the  most. 

Yet,  when  I  see  more  cunning  men  evade 

With  colder  tact,  the  blunders  that  I  made; 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  the  better  part 

Is  not  still  mine,  who  lacked  their  subtle  art. 

For  I  have  conned  my  book  in  harsher  schools, 

And  learned  from  struggling  what  they  worked  by 
rules; 

Learned — with  some  pain — more  quickly  to  for- 
give 

My  fellow-blunderers,  while  they  learn  to  live; 

Learned — with  some  tears — to  keep  a  steadfast 
mind, 

And  think  more  kindly  of  my  own  poor  kind. 

[69] 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN 

He  read  the  verses  through,  shaking  his  wig. 

"Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps" — he  whispered  to  himself ', 

"  I'd  better  leave  it  to  the  will  of  God. 

They  might  upset  my  own.     I  do  not  think 

They'd  understand.     Jocelyn  mighty  perhaps; 

And  Dick,  if  only  they  were  left  alone. 

But  Rosalind  never;  nor  that  nephew  of  mine. 

The  witty  politician.     No.     No.     No. 

They'd  say  my  mind  was  wandering,  I'm  afraid." 

So,  with  a  frozen  face,  reluctantly, 

He  tossed  his  verses  into  the  dying  fire, 

And  watched  the  sparks  fly  upward. 

There,  at  dawn, 

They  found  him,  cold  and  stiff,  by  the  cold  hearth, 
His  amber  snuff-box  in  his  ivory  hand. 
"  You  see,"  they  said,  "he  never  needed  friends. 
He  had  that  curious  antique  frozen  way. 
He  had  no  heart — only  an  amber  snuff-box. 
He  died  quite  happily,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff. " 

His  nephew,  that  engaging  politician, 
Inherited  the  snuff-box,  and  remarked 
His  epitaph  should  be  "Snuffed  Out. "     The  clubs 
Laughed,  and  the  statesman's  reputation  grew. 

[70] 


WHAT  GRANDFATHER  SAID 

(An  epistle  from  a  narrow-minded  old  gentleman  to  a  young  artist  of 
superior  intellect  and  intense  realism.) 

YOUR  thoughts  are  for  the  poor  and  weak? 
Ah,  no,  the  picturesque's  your  passion ! 
Your  tongue  is  always  in  your  cheek 
At  poverty  that's  not  in  fashion. 

You  like  a  ploughman's  rugged  face, 

Or  painted  eyes  in  Piccadilly; 
But  bowler  hats  are  commonplace, 

And  thread-bare  tradesmen  simply  silly. 

The  clerk  that  sings  "God  save  the  King," 
And  still  believes  his  Tory  paper, — • 

You  hate  the  anaemic  fool?     I  thought 

You  loved  the  weak!    Was  that  all  vapour? 

Ah,  when  you  sneer,  dear  democrat, 

At  such  a  shiny-trousered  Tory 
Because  he  doffs  his  poor  old  hat 

To  what  he  thinks  his  country's  glory, 


WHAT  GRANDFATHER  SAID 

To  you  it's  just  a  coloured  rag. 

You  hate  the  "patriots"  that  bawl  so. 
Well,  my  Ulysses,  there's  a  flag 

That  lifts  men  in  Republics  also. 

No  doubt  his  thoughts  are  cruder  far; 

And,  where  those  linen  folds  are  shaking, 
Perhaps  he  sees  a  kind  of  star 

Because  his  eyes  are  tired  and  aching. 

Banal  enough!     Banal  as  truth! 

But  I'm  not  thinking  of  his  banners. 
I'm  thinking  of  his  pinched  white  youth 

And  your  disgusting  "new  art"  manners. 

His  meek  submission  stirs  your  hate? 

Better,  my  lad,  if  you're  so  fervent, 
Turn  your  cold  steel  against  the  State 

Instead  of  sneering  at  the  servant. 

He  does  his  job.     He  draws  his  pay. 

You  sneer,  and  dine  with  those  that  pay  him; 
And  then  you  write  a  snobbish  play 

For  democrats,  in  which  you  play  him. 

[72] 


WHAT  GRANDFATHER  SAID 

Ah,  yes,  you  like  simplicity 

That  sucks  its  cheeks  to  make  the  dimple. 
But  this  domestic  bourgeoisie 

You  hate, — because  it's  all  too  simple. 

You  hate  the  hearth,  the  wife,  the  child, 

You  hate  the  heavens  that  bend  above  them. 

Your  simple  folk  must  all  run  wild 

Like  jungle-beasts  before  you  love  them. 

You  own  a  house  in  Cheyne  Walk, 

(You  say  it  costs  three  thousand  fully) 

Where  subtle  snobs  can  talk  and  talk 
And  play  the  intellectual  bully. 

Yes.     I  say  "snobs."     Are  names  alone 

Free  from  all  change?     Your  word  "Victorian" 

Could  bite  and  sting  in  ninety  one 

But  now — it's  deader  than  the  saurian. 

You  think  I  live  in  yesterday, 

Because  I  think  your  way  the  wrong  one; 
But  I  have  hewed  and  ploughed  my  way, 

And — unlike  yours — it's  been  a  long  one. 

[731 


WHAT  GRANDFATHER  SAID 

I  let  Victoria  toll  her  bell, 

And  went  with  Strindberg  for  a  ride,  sir. 
I've  fought  through  your  own  day  as  well, 

And  come  out  on  the  other  side,  sir, — 

The  further  side,  the  morning  side, 

I  read  free  verse  (the  Psalms)  on  Sunday. 

But  I've  decided  (you'll  decide) 
That  there  is  room  for  song  on  Monday. 

I've  seen  the  new  snob  on  his  way, 

The  intellectual  snob  I  mean,  sir, 
The  artist  snob,  in  book  and  play, 

Kicking  his  mother  round  the  scene,  sir. 

I've  heard  the  Tories  talk  like  fools; 

And  the  rich  fool  that  apes  the  Tory. 
I've  seen  the  shopmen  break  your  rules 

And  die  like  Christ,  in  Christ's  own  glory. 

But,  as  for  you,  that  liberal  sneer 
Reminds  me  of  the  poor  old  Kaiser. 

He  was  a  "socialist,"  my  dear. 
Well,  I'm  your  grandson.     You'll  grow  wiser. 

[74] 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  PACIFIC  COAST 

I  KNOW  a  land,  I,  too, 
Where  warm  keen  incense  on  the  sea-wind 

blows, 

And  all  the  winter  long  the  skies  are  blue, 
And  the  brown  deserts  blossom  with  the  rose. 

Deserts  of  all  delight, 

Cactus  and  palm  and  earth  of  thirsty  gold, 
Dark  purple  blooms  round  eaves  of  sun-washed 
white, 

And  that  Hesperian  fruit  men  sought  of  old. 

O,  to  be  wandering  there, 

Under  the  palm-trees,  on  that  sunset  shore, 
Where  the  waves  break  in  song,  and  the  bright  air 

Is  crystal  clean;  and  peace  is  ours,  once  more. 

There  Beauty  dwells, 

Beauty,  re-born  in  whiteness  from  the  foam; 
And  Youth  returns  with  all  its  magic  spells, 

And  the  heart  finds  its  long-forgotten  home, — 

[75] 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  PACIFIC  COAST 

Home — home!     Where  is  that  land? 

For,  when  I  dream  it  found,  the  old  hungering 

cry 
Aches  in  the  soul,  drives  me  fiom  all  I  planned, 

And  sets  my  sail  to  seek  another  sky. 


[76] 


NIPPON 

LAST  night,  I  dreamed  of  Nippon 
I  saw  a  cloud  of  white 
Drifting  before  the  sunset 
On  seas  of  opal  light. 

Beyond  the  wide  Pacific 
I  saw  its  mounded  snow 

Miraculously  changing 
In  that  deep  evening  glow, 

To  rosy  rifts  and  hillocks, 
To  orchards  that  I  knew, 

To  snows  of  peach  and  cherry, 
And  feathers  of  bamboo. 

I  saw,  on  twisted  bridges, 
In  blue  and  crimson  gleams, 

The  lanterns  of  the  fishers, 
Along  the  brook  of  dreams. 

[771 


NIPPON 

I  saw  the  wreaths  of  incense 
Like  little  ghosts  arise, 

From  temples  under  Fuji, 
From  Fuji  to  the  skies. 

I  saw  that  fairy  mountain.  .  .  . 

I  watched  it  form  and  fade. 
No  doubt  the  gods  were  singing, 

When  Nippon  isle  was  made. 


[78] 


THE  HUMMING  BIRDS 

GREEN  wing  and  ruby  throat, 
What  shining  spell,  what  exquisite  sor- 
cery, 
Lured  you  to  float 

And  fight  with  bees  round  this  one  flowering 
tree  ? 

Petulant  imps  of  light, 

What  whisper  or  gleam  or  elfin-wild  perfumes 
Thrilled  through  the  night 

And  drew  you  to  this  hive  of  rosy  bloom? 

One  tree,  and  one  alone, 

Of  all  that  load  this  magic  air  with  spice, 
Claims  for  its  own 

Your  brave  migration  out  of  Paradise; 

Claims  you,  and  guides  you,  too, 

Three  thousand  miles  across  the  summer's  waste 
Of  blooms  ye  knew 

Less  finely  fit  for  your  ethereal  taste. 

[79] 


THE  HUMMING  BIRDS 

To  poets'  youthful  hearts, 

Even  so  the  quivering  April  thoughts  will  fly, — 
Those  irised  darts, 

Those  winged  and  tiny  denizens  of  the  sky. 

Through  beaks  as  needle-fine, 

They  suck  a  redder  honey  than  bees  know. 
Unearthly  wine 

Sleeps  in  this  bloom;  and,  when  it  falls,  they  go. 


[Ro] 


LINES  FOR  A  SUN-DIAL 

WITH  shadowy  pen  I  write, 
Till  time  be  done, 
Good  news  of  some  strange  light, 
Some  far  off  sun. 


[8iJ 


THE   REALMS  OF  GOLD 

(Written  after  hearing  a  line  of  Keats  repeated  by  a  passing  stranger 
under  the  palms  of  Southern  California.) 

. 

UNDER  the  palms  of  San  Diego 
Where  gold-skinned  Mexicans  loll  at  ease, 
And   the   red   half-moons   of  their  black- 
pipped  melons 

Drop  from  their  hands  in  the  sunset  seas, 
And  an  incense,  out  of  the  old  brown  missions, 
Blows  through  the  orange  trees; 

I  wished  that  a  poet  who  died  in  Europe 
Had  found  his  way  to  this  rose-red  West; 

That  Keats  had  walked  by  the  wide  Pacific 
And  cradled  his  head  on  its  healing  breast, 

And  made  new  songs  of  the  sun-burned  sea-folk, 
New  poems,  perhaps  his  best. 

I  thought  of  him,  under  the  ripe  pomegranates 

At  the  desert's  edge,  where  the  grape-vines  grow, 
In  a  sun-kissed  ranch  between  grey-green  sage- 
brush 

And  amethyst  mountains,  peaked  with  snow, 
[82] 


THE  REALMS  OF  GOLD 

/ 

Or  watching  the  lights  of  the  City  of  Angels 
Glitter  like  stars  below. 

He  should  walk,  at  dawn,  by  the  lemon  orchards, 
And  breathe  at  ease  in  that  dry  bright  air; 

And  the  Spanish  bells  in  their  crumbling  cloisters 
Of  brown  adobe  would  sing  to  him  there; 

And  the  old  Franciscans  would  bring  him  their 

baskets 
Of  apple  and  olive  and  pear. 

And  the  mandolins,  in  the  deep  blue  twilight, 

Under  that  palm  with  the  lion's  mane, 
Would   pluck,  once  more,   at  his  golden  heart- 
strings, 

And  tell  him  the  old  sea-tales  of  Spain; 
And  there  should  the  daughters  of  Hesperus  teach 

him 
Their  mystical  songs  again. 

Then,  the  dusk  blew  sweet  over  seas  of  peach- 
bloom; 

The  moon  sailed  white  in  the  cloudless  blue; 
The  tree-toads  purred,  and  the  crickets  chirruped; 

And  better  than  anything  dreamed  came  true; 

[83] 


THE  REALMS  OF  GOLD 

For,  under  the  murmuring  palms,  a  shadow 
Passed,  with  the  eyes  I  knew; 

A  shadow,  perhaps,  of  the  tall  green  fountains 
That  rustled  their  fronds  on  that  glittering  sky, 

A  hungering  shadow,  a  lean  dark  shadow, 
A  dreaming  shadow  that  drifted  by; 

But  I  heard  him  whisper  the  strange  dark  music 
That  found  it  so  "rich  to  die." 

And  the  murmuring  palms  of  San  Diego 
Shook  with  stars  as  he  passed  beneath. 

The  Paradise  palms,  and  the  wild  white  orchards, 
The  night,  and  its  roses,  were  all  one  breath, 

Bearing  the  song  of  a  nightingale  seaward, 
A  song  that  had  out-soared  death. 


[843 


COMPENSATIONS 

OT  with  a  flash  that  rends  the  blue 

Shall  fall  the  avenging  sword. 
Gently  as  the  evening  dew 
Descends  the  mighty  Lord. 


N 


His  dreadful  balances  are  made 
To  move  with  moon  and  tide; 

Yet  shall  not  mercy  be  afraid 
Nor  justice  be  denied. 

The  dreams  that  seemed  to  waste  away, 

The  kindliness  forgot, 
Were  singing  in  your  heart  today 

Although  you  knew  them  not. 

The  sun  shall  not  forget  his  road, 
Nor  the  high  stars  their  rhyme, 

The  traveller  with  the  heavier  load 
Has  one  less  hill  to  climb. 

[85] 


COMPENSATIONS 

And,  though  a  darker  shadow  fall 

On  every  struggling  age, 
How  shall  it  be  if,  after  all, 

He  share  our  pilgrimage? 

The  end  we  mourn  is  not  the  end. 

The  dust  has  nimble  wings. 
But  truth  and  beauty  have  a  friend 

At  the  deep  heart  of  things. 

He  will  not  speak?    What  friend  belies 

His  love  with  idle  breath  ? 
We  read  it  in  each  others'  eyes, 

And  ask  no  more  in  death. 


[86] 


DEAD  MAN'S  MORRICE 

THERE  came  a  crowder  to  the  Mermaid  Inn, 
One  dark  May  night, 
Fiddling  a  tune  that  quelled  our  motley  din, 

With  quaint  delight, 
It  haunts  me  yet,  as  old  lost  airs  will  do, 

A  phantom  strain: 

Look  for  me  once,  lest  I  should  look  for  you, 
And  look  in  vain. 

In  that  old  wood,  where  ghosts  of  lovers  walk, 

At  fall  of  day, 
Gleaning  such  fragments  of  their  ancient  talk 

As  poor  ghosts  may, 

From  leaves  that  brushed  their  faces,  wet  with 
dew, 

Or  tears,  or  rain,  .  .  . 
Look  for  me  once,  lest  I  should  look  for  you, 

And  look  in  vain. 

Have  we  not  seen  them — pale  forgotten  shades 
That  do  return, 

[87] 


DEAD  MAN'S  MORRICE 

Groping  for  those  dim  paths,  those  fragrant  glades, 

Those  nooks  of  fern, 
Only  to  find  that,  of  the  may  they  knew, 

No  wraiths  remain; 
Yet  they  still  look,  as  I  should  look  for  you. 

And  look  in  vain. 

They  see  those  happier  ghosts  that  waned  away — 

Whither,  who  knows? — 
Ghosts  that  come  back  with  music  and  the  may, 

And  Spring's  first  rose, 
Lover  and  lass,  to  sing  the  old  burden  through, 

Stave  and  refrain: 
Look  for  me  once,  lest  I  should  look  for  you. 

And  look  in  vain. 

So,  after  death,  if  in  that  starless  deep, 

I  lose  your  eyes, 
I'll  haunt  familiar  places.     I'll  not  keep 

Tryst  in  the  skies. 
I'll  haunt  the  whispering  elms  that  found  us  true, 

The  old  grass-grown  lane. 
Look  for  me  there,  lest  I  should  look  for  you. 

And  look  in  vain. 

[88] 


DEAD  MAN'S  MORRICE 

There,  as  of  old,  under  the  dreaming  moon, 

A  phantom  throng 
Floats  through  the  fern,  to  a  ghostly  morrice  tune, 

A  thin  sweet  song, 
Hands  link  with  hands,  eyes  drown  in  eyes  anew, 

Lips  meet  again.  .  .  . 
Look  for  me,  once,  lest  I  should  look  for  you, 

And  look  in  vain. 


"   THE 


OLD  FOOL  IN  THE  WOOD 


1  TF  I  could  whisper  you  all  I  know," 
A       Said  the  Old  Fool  in  the  Wood, 

"You'd  never  say  that  green  leaves  grow. 

You'd  say,  'Ah,  what  a  happy  mood 
The  Master  must  be  in  today, 

To  think  such  thoughts,* 
That's  what  you'd  say. 

"If  I  could  whisper  you  all  I've  heard," 

Said  the  Old  Fool  in  the  fern, 
"You'd  never  say  the  song  of  a  bird. 

You'd  say,  Til  listen,  and  p'raps  I'll  learn 
One  word  of  His  joy  as  He  passed  this  way, 

One  syllable  more,' 
That's  what  you'd  say." 

"If  I  could  tell  you  all  the  rest," 
Said  the  Old  Fool  under  the  skies, 

"You'd  hug  your  griefs  against  your  breast 
And  whisper  with  love-lit  eyes, 

'I  am  one  with  the  sorrow  that  made  the  may, 
And  the  pulse  of  His  heart,' 

That's  what  you'd  say." 


A  NEW  MADRIGAL  TO  AN  OLD  MELODY 

(It  is  supposed  that  Shadow-of-a-Leaf  uses  the  word  "clear"  in  a 
more  ancient  sense  of  "  beautiful. ") 

AS   along  a  dark  pine-bough,  in  slender  white 
mystery 

The  moon  lay  to  listen,  above  the  thick 
fern, 
In  a  deep  dreaming  wood  that  is  older  than  history 

I  heard  a  lad  sing,  and  I  stilled  me  to  learn; 
So  rarely  he  lilted  his  long-forgot  litany, — 

Fall,  April;  fall,  April,  in  dew  on  our  dearth! 
Bring  balm,  and  bring  poppy,  bring  deep  sleepy 

dittany 
For  Marian,  our  clear  May,  so  long  laid  in  earth. 

Then  I  drew  back  the  branches.     I  saw  him  that 

chanted  it. 

I  saw  his  fool's  bauble.     I  knew  his  old  grief. 
I  knew  that  old  greenwood  and  the  shadow  that 

haunted  it, — 
My  fool,  my  lost  jester,  my  Shadow-of-a-Leaf! 


A  NEW  MADRIGAL  TO  AN  OLD  MELODY 

And  "why,"  I  said,  "why,  all  this  while/have  you 

left  me  so 

Luckless  in  melody,  lonely  in  mirth  ? " 
"Oh,  why,"  he  sang,  "why  has  this  world  then 

bereft  me  so 
Soon  of  my  Marian,  so  long  laid  in  earth? 

"In  the  years  that  are  gone,"  he  said,  "love  was 

more  fortunate. 

Grief  was  our  minstrel  of  things  that  endure. 
Now,  ashes  and  dust  and  this  world  grow  im- 
portunate. 

Time  has  no  sorrow  that  time  cannot  cure. 
Once,  we   could   lose,   and   the   loss   was   worth 

cherishing. 

Now,  we  may  win,  but,  O,  where  is  the  worth? 
Memory    and    true   love,"    he   whispered,    "are 

perishing, 

With  Marian,  our  clear  May,  so  long  laid  in 
earth." 

"Ah,  no!"  I  said,  "no!     Since  we  grieve  for  our 

grief  again, 
Touch  the  old  strings!     Let  us  try  the  old  stave! 

[92] 


A  NEW  MADRIGAL  TO  AN  OLD  MELODY 

And  memory  may  wake,  like  my  Shadozv-of-a- 

Leaf  again, 

Singing  of  hope,  in  the  dark,  by  a  grave." 
So  we  sang  it  together — that  long-forgot  litany: — 

Fall,  April;  fall,  April;  bring  new  grief  to  birth. 
Bring  wild  herb  of  grace,  and  bring  deep  healing 

dittany, 
For  Marian,  our  clear  May,  so  long  laid  in  earth. 


[93] 


THE  LOST  BATTLE 

IT  is  not  over  yet — the  fight 
Where  those  immortal  dreamers  failed. 
They  stormed  the  citadels  of  night 

And  the  night  praised  them — and  prevailed. 
So  long  ago  the  cause  was  lost 

We  scarce  distinguish  friend  from  foe; 
But — if  the  dead  can  help  it  most — 
The  armies  of  the  dead  will  grow. 

The  world  has  all  our  banners  now, 

And  filched  our  watchwords  for  its  own. 
The  world  has  crowned  the  "rebel's"  brow 

And  millions  crowd  his  lordly  throne. 
The  masks  have  altered.     Names  are  names; 

They  praise  the  "truth"  that  is  not  true. 
The  "rebel"  that  the  world  acclaims 

Is  not  the  rebel  Shelley  knew. 

We  may  not  build  that  Commonweal. 

We  may  not  reach  the  goal  we  set. 
But  there's  a  flag  they  dare  not  steal. 

Forward!     It  is  not  over  yet. 

[94] 


THE  LOST  BATTLE 

We  shall  be  dust  and  under  dust 
Before  we  end  that  ancient  wrong; 

But  here's  a  sword  that  cannot  rust, 
And  where's  the  death  can  touch  a  song? 

So,  when  our  bodies  rot  in  earth 

The  singing  souls  that  once  were  ours, 
Weaponed  with  light  and  helmed  with  mirth, 

Shall  front  the  kingdoms  and  the  powers. 
The  ancient  lie  is  on  its  throne, 

And  half  the  living  still  forget; 
But,  since  the  dead  are  all  our  own, 

Courage,  it  is  not  over  yet. 


[951 


RIDDLES   OF   MERLIN 

AS  I  was  walking 
Alone  by  the  sea, 
"What  is  that  whisper?" 
Said  Merlin  to  me. 
"Only,"  I  answered, 

"The  sigh  of  the  wave" — 
"Oh,  no,"  replied  Merlin, 

"  ' Tis  the  grass  on  your  grave.' 

As  I  lay  dreaming 

In  churchyard  ground 
"Listen,"  said  Merlin, 

"What  is  that  sound?" 
"The  green  grass  is  growing," 

I  answered;  but  he 
Chuckled,  "Oh,  no! 

'  Tis  the  sound  of  the  sea. " 

As  I  went  homeward 
At  dusk  by  the  shore, 

[961 


RIDDLES  OF  MERLIN 

"What  is  that  crimson?" 
Said  Merlin  once  more. 

"Only  the  sun,"  I  said. 

"Sinking  to  rest" — 

"Sunset  for  East,"  he  said, 
"Sunrise for  West." 


[971 


w 


THE  SYMPHONY 

IONDER  in  happy  eyes 

Fades,  fades  away: 
And  the  angel-coloured  skies 
Whisper  farewell. 


Loveliness  over  the  strings  of  the  heart  may  stray 

In  fugitive  melodies; 
But  Oh,  the  hand  of  the  Master  must  not  stay, 

Even  for  a  breath; 

For  to  prolong  one  joy,  or  even  to  dwell 

On  one  rich  chord  of  pain, 
Beyond  the  pulse  of  the  song,  would  untune  heaven 

And  drown  the  stars  in  death. 

So  youth  with  its  love-note  dies; 

And  beauty  fades  in  the  air, 
To  make  the  master-symphony  immortal, 

And  find  new  life  and  deeper  wonder  there. 


[98J 


PEACE 

GIVE  me  the  pulse  of  the  tide  again 
And  the  slow  lapse  of  the  leaves, 
The  rustling  gold  of  a  field  of  grain 
And  a  bird  in  the  nested  eaves; 

And  a  fishing-smack  in  the  old  harbour 

Where  all  was  happy  and  young; 
And  an  echo  or  two  of  the  songs  I  knew 

When  songs  could  still  be  sung. 

For  I  would  empty  my  heart  of  all 

This  world's  implacable  roar, 
And  I  would  turn  to  my  home,  and  fall 

Asleep  in  my  home  once  more; 

And  I  would  forget  what  the  cities  say, 

And  the  folly  of  all  the  wise, 
And  turn  to  my  own  true  folk  this  day, 

And  the  love  in  their  constant  eyes. 

There  is  peace,  peace,  where  the  sea-birds  wheel, 

And  peace  in  the  breaking  wave; 
And  I  have  a  broken  heart  to  heal, 

And  a  broken  soul  to  save. 

[99] 


THE  OPEN  DOOR 

O  MYSTERY  of  life, 
That,  after  all  our  strife, 

Defeats,  mistakes, 
Just  as,  at  last,  we  see 
The  road  to  victory, 
The  tired  heart  breaks. 

Just  as  the  long  years  give 
Knowledge  of  how  to  live, 

Life's  end  draws  near; 
As  if,  that  gift  being  ours, 
God  needed  our  new  powers 

In  worlds  elsewhere. 

There,  if  the  soul  whose  wings 
Were  won  in  suffering,  springs 

To  life  anew, 

Justice  would  have  some  room 
For  hope  beyond  the  tomb, 

And  mercy,  too. 

[100] 


THE  OPEN  DOOR 

And  since,  without  this  dream 
No  light,  no  faintest  gleam 

Answers  our  "why"; 
But  earth  and  all  its  race 
Must  pass  and  leave  no  trace 

On  that  blind  sky; 

Shall  reason  close  that  door 
On  all  we  struggled  for, 

Seal  the  soul's  doom; 
Make  of  this  universe 
One  wild  answering  curse, 

One  lampless  tomb? 

Mine  be  the  dream,  the  creed 
That  leaves  for  God,  indeed, 

For  God,  and  man, 
One  open  door  whereby 
To  prove  His  world  no  lie 

And  crown  His  plan. 


[101] 


IMMORTAL  SAILS 

NOW,  in  a  breath,  we'll  burst  those  gates  of 
gold, 
And  ransack  heaven  before  our  moment 

fails. 

Now,  in  a  breath,  before  we,  too,  grow  old, 
We'll  mount  and  sing  and  spread  immortal  sails. 

It  is  not  time  that  makes  eternity. 

Love  and  an  hour  may  quite  out-run  the  years, 
And  give  us  more  to  hear  and  more  to  see 

Than  life  can  wash  away  with  all  its  tears. 

Dear,  when  we  part,  at  last,  that  sunset  sky 

Shall  not  be  touched  with  deeper  hues  than  this;. 

But  we  shall  ride  the  lightning  ere  we  die 
And  seize  our  brief  infinitude  of  bliss, 

With  time  to  spare  for  all  that  heaven  can  tell, 
While  eyes  meet  eyes,  and  look  their  last  farewell. 


[102] 


THE  MATIN-SONG  OF  FRIAR  TUCK 

i. 

IF  souls  could  sing  to  heaven's  high  King 
As  blackbirds  pipe  on  earth, 
How  those  delicious  courts  would  ring 
With  gusts  of  lovely  mirth ! 
What  white-robed  throng  could  lift  a  song 

So  mellow  with  righteous  glee 
As  this  brown  bird  that  all  day  long 
Delights  my  hawthorn  tree. 
Hark!  That's  the  thrush 

With  speckled  breast 
From  yon  white  bush 
Chaunting  his  best, 
Te  Deum!     Te  Deum  laudamus! 

II. 

If  earthly  dreams  be  touched  with  gleams 

Of  Paradisal  air, 
Some  wings,  perchance,  of  earth  may  glance 

Around  our  slumbers  there; 

[103] 


THE  MATIN-SONG  OF  FRIAR  TUCK 

Some  breaths  of  may  might  drift  our  way 

With  scents  of  leaf  and  loam, 
Some  whistling  bird  at  dawn  be  heard 
From  those  old  woods  of  home. 
Hark!    That's  the  thrush 

With  speckled  breast 
From  yon  white  bush 
Chaunting  his  best, 
Te  Deuml     Te  Deum  laudamus! 

in. 

No  King  or  priest  shall  mar  my  feast 

Where'er  my  soul  may  range. 
I  have  no  fear  of  heaven's  good  cheer 

Unless  our  Master  change. 
But  when  death's  night  is  dying  away, 

If  I  might  choose  my  bliss, 
My  love  should  say,  at  break  of  day, 
With  her  first  waking  kiss : — 
Hark!    That's  the  thrush 

With  speckled  breast, 
From  yon  white  bush 
Chaunting  his  best, 
Te  Deum!     Te  Deum  laudamus! 
[104] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 


i. 

(On  many  recent  novels  by  the  conventional  uncon- 
ventionalists.) 

OLD  PANTALOON,  lean-witted,  dour  and 
rich, 

After  grim  years  of  soul-destroying  greed, 
Weds  Columbine,  that  April-blooded  witch 

"Too  young"  to  know  that  gold  was  not  her 
need. 

Then  enters  Pierrot,  young,  rebellious,  warm, 
With  well-lined  purse,  to  teach  the  fine-souled 

wife 

That  the  old  fool's  gold  should  aid  a  world-reform 
(Confused  with  sex).     This  wrecks  the  old  fool's 
life. 

• 
O,  there's  no  doubt  that  Pierrot  was  clever, 

Quick  to  break  hearts  and  quench  the  dying 
flame; 

[105] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 

But  why,  for  his  own  pride,  does  Pierrot  never 
Choose  his  own  mate,  work  for  his  own  high  aim, 

Stand  on  his  feet,  and  pay  for  his  own  tune? 
Why  scold,  cheat,  rob  and  kill  poor  Pantaloon? 

H. 

(On  a  certain  goddess,   acclaimed  as  "new"  but 
known  in  Babylon.} 

I  SAW  the  assembled  artists  of  our  day 
Waiting  for  light,  for  music  and  for  song. 
A  woman  stood  before  them,  fresh  as  May 
And  beautiful;  but,  in  that  modish  throng, 

None  heeded  her.     They  said,  "In  our  first  youth 
Surely,  long  since,  your  hair  was  touched  with 

grey. " 

" I  do  not  change, "  she  answered.     "  I  am  Truth. " 
"Old   and   banal,"  they  sneered,   and  turned 
away. 

Then  came  a  formless  thing,  with  breasts  dyed 

scarlet. 

The  roses  in  her  hair  were  green  and  blue. 
"I    am   new,"    she   said.     "I    change,    and 
Death  knows  why. " 

[106] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 

Then  with  the  eyes  and  gesture  of  a  harlot 

She  led   them   all   forth,   whinneying,    "New, 
how  new! 

Tell  us  your  name!"     She  answered,  "The 
New  Lie." 

in. 

(On  Certain  of  the  Bolsheviki  "Idealists.") 

WITH  half  the  force  and  thought  you  waste 
in  rage 

Over  your  neighbor's  house,  or  heart  of 
stone, 

You  might  have  built  your  own  new  heritage, 
O  fools,  have  you  no  hands,  then,  of  your  own? 

Where  is  your  pride?     Is  this  your  answer  still, 
This  the  red  flag  that  burns  above  our  strife, 

This  the  new  cry  that  rings  from  Pisgah  hill, 
"Our  neighbor's  money,  or  our  neighbor's  life"? 

Be  prouder.     Let  us  build  that  nobler  state 
With  our  own  hands,  with  our  own  muscle  and 
brain! 

Your  very  victories  die  in  hymns  of  hate; 

And  your  own  envies  are  your  heaviest  chain. 

Is  there  no  rebel  proud  enough  to  say 

"We'll  stand  on  our  own  feet,  and  win  the  day"? 

[107] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 

IV. 

(On  Certain  Realists.) 


YOU  with  the  quick  sardonic  eye 
For  all  the  mockeries  of  life, 


Beware,  in  this  dark  masque  of  things  that 
seem, 

Lest  even  that  tragic  irony, 
Which  you  discern  in  this  our  mortal  strife, 
Trick  you  and  trap  you,  also,  with  a  dream. 

Last  night  I  saw  a  dead  man  borne  along 

The  city  streets,  passing  a  boisterous  throng 

That  never  ceased  to  laugh  and  shout  and  dance: 

And  yet,  and  yet, 

For  all  the  poison  bitter  minds  might  brew 

From  themes  like  this,  I  knew 

That  the  stern  Truth  would  not  permit  her  glance 

Thus  to  be  foiled  by  flying  straws  of  chance, 

For  her  keen  eyes  on  deeper  skies  are  set, 

And  laws  that  tragic  ironists  forget. 

She  saw  the  dead  man's  life,  from  birth  to  death, — 
All  that  he  knew  of  love  and  sin  and  pain, 
Success  and  failure  (not  as  this  world  sees), 
His  doubts,  his  passions,  inner  loss  and  gain, 

[108] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 

And  borne  on  darker  tides  of  constant  law 
Beyond  the  margin  of  this  life  she  saw 
All  that  had  left  his  body  with  the  breath. 
These  things,  to  her,  were  still  realities. 

If  any  mourned  for  him  unseen, 

She  saw  them,  too. 

If  none,  she'd  not  pretend 

His  clay  were  colder,  or  his  God  less  true, 

Or  that  his  grave,  at  length,  would  be  less  green. 

She'd  not  deny 

The  boundless  depths  of  her  eternal  sky 

Brooding  above  a  boundless  universe, 

Because  he  seemed  to  man's  unseeing  eye 

Going  a  little  further  to  fare  worse; 

Nor  would  she  assume  he  lacked  that  unseen  friend 

Whom  even  the  tragic  ironists  declare 

Were  better  than  the  seen,  in  his  last  end. 

Oh,  then,  beware,  beware, 
Lest  in  the  strong  name  of  "reality" 
You  mock  yourselves  anew  with  shapes  of  air, 
Lest  it  be  you,  agnostics,  who  re-write 
The  fettering  creeds  of  night, 
Affirm  you  know  your  own  Unknowable, 
And  lock  the  winged  soul  in  a  new  hell; 
[109] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 

Lest  it  be  you,  lip-worshippers  of  Truth, 
Who  break  the  heart  of  youth; 
Lest  it  be  you,  the  realists,  who  fight 
With  shadows,  and  forget  your  own  pure  light; 
Lest  it  be  you  who,  with  a  little  shroud 
Snatched  from  the  sightless  faces  of  the  dead, 
Hoodwink  the  world,  and  keep  the  mourner  bowed 
In  dust,  real  dust,  with  stones,  real  stones,  for 

bread; 

Lest,  as  you  look  one  eighth  of  an  inch  beneath 
The  yellow  skin  of  death, 
You  dream  yourselves  discoverers  of  the  skull 
That  old  memento  mori  of  our  faith; 
Lest  it  be  you  who  hunt  a  flying  wraith 
Through  this  dissolving  stuff  of  hill  and  cloud; 
Lest  it  be  you,  who,  at  the  last,  annul 
Your  covenant  with  your  kind; 
Lest  it  be  you  who  darken  heart  and  mind, 
Sell  the  strong  soul  in  bondage  to  a  dream, 
And  fetter  us  once  more  to  things  that  seem 


[no] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 


(An  Answer) 

[After  reading  an  article  in  a  leading  London  journal  by  an 
"intellectual"  who  attacked  one  of  the  noblest  poets  and  greatest 
artists  of  a  former  century  (or  any  century)  on  the  ground  that  his 
high  ethical  standards  were  incompatible  with  the  new  lawlessness. 
This  vicious  lawlessness  the  writer  described  definitely,  and  he  paid 
hjs  tribute  to  dishonour  as  openly  and  brutally  as  any  of  the  Bolshe- 
viki  could  have  done.  I  had  always  known  that  this  was  the  real 
ground  of  the  latter-day  onslaught  on  some  of  the  noblest  literature 
of  the  past;  but  I  had  never  seen  it  openly  confessed  before.  The 
time  has  now  surely  come  when,  if  our  civilization  is  to  make  any 
fight  at  all  against  the  new  "red  ruin  and  breaking  up  of  laws,"  we 
must  cease  to  belaud  our  slack-minded,  latter-day  "literature  of 
rebellion"  for  its  cleverness  in  making  scraps  of  paper  out  of  the 
plain  laws  of  right  and  wrong.  It  has  been  doing  this  for  more  than 
twenty-five  years,  and  the  same  has  become  fashionable  among 
those  who  are  too  busy  to  read  carefully  or  understand  fully  what 
pitfalls  are  being  prepared  for  their  own  feet  and  the  feet  of  their 
children.] 


IF  this  were  true,  England  indeed  were  dead. 
If  the  wild  fashion  of  that  poisonous  hour 
Wherein    the    new    Salome,    clothed    with 
power, 

Wriggled  and  hissed,  with  hands  and  feet  so  red, 
Should  even  now  demand  that  glorious  head, 
Whose  every  word  was  like  an  English  flower, 
Whose  every  song  an  English  April  shower, 
Whose  every  thought  immortal  wine  and  bread; 
If  this  were  true,  if  England  should  prefer 
Darkness,  corruption,  and  the  adulterous 

[Ul] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 

Shakespeare  and  Browning  would  cry  shame  on 

her, 

And  Milton  would  deny  the  land  he  knew; 
And  those  who  died  in  Flanders  yesterday 
Would  thank  their  God  they  sleep  in  cleaner  clay. 

II 

It  is  not  true.     Only  these  "rebel"  wings, 
These  glittering  clouds  of  "intellectual"  flies 
Out  of  the  stagnant  pools  of  midnight  rise 

From  the  old  dead  creeds,  with  carrion-poisoned 

stings 

They  strike  at  noble  and  ignoble  things, 
Immortal  Love  with  the  old  world's  out-worn 

lies, 
But  even  now,  a  wind  from  clearer  skies 

Dissolves  in  smoke  their  coteries  and  wings. 

See,  their  divorced  idealist  re-divorces 

The  wife  he  stole  from  his  own  stealing  friend ! 
And  these  would  pluck  the  high  stars  from  their 

courses, 

And  mock  the  fools  that  praise  them,  till  the 
end! 

[112] 


FIVE  CRITICISMS 

Well,  let  the  whole  world  praise  them.     Truth  can 

wait 
Till  our  new  England  shall  unlock  the  gate. 

ill 

Yes.     Let  the  fools  go  paint  themselves  with  woad, 

For  we've  a  jest  between  us,  Truth  and  I. 

We  know  that  those  who  live  by  fashion  die 
Also  by  fashion,  and  that  mode  kills  mode. 
We  know  the  great  new  age  is  on  the  road, 

And  death  is  at  the  heart  of  every  lie. 

But  we've  a  jest  between  us,  Truth  and  I. 
And  we  have  locked  the  doors  to  our  abode. 

Yet  if  some  great  new  "rebel"  in  his  pride 

Should  pass  that  way  and  hear  us  laughing  low 
Like  lovers,  in  the  darkness,  side  by  side, 

He  might  catch  this: — "The  dullards  do  not 

know 
That    names    are    names.    New    'rebel*    is    old 

'thrall.'  " 
And  we're  the  lonely  dreamers  after  all. 


THE  COMPANIONS 

HOW  few  are  they  that  voyage  through  the 
night 

On  that  eternal  quest, 
For  that  strange  light  beyond  our  light, 
That  rest  beyond  our  rest. 

And  they  who,  seeking  beauty,  once  descry 

Her  face,  to  most  unknown; 
Thenceforth  like  changelings  from  the  sky 

Must  walk  their  road  alone. 

So  once  I  dreamed.     So  idle  was  my  mood; 

But  now,  before  these  eyes, 
From  those  foul  trenches,  black  with  blood, 

What  radiant  legions  rise! 

And  loveliness  over  the  wounded  earth  awakes 

Like  wild-flowers  in  the  Spring. 
Out  of  the  mortal  chrysalis  breaks 

Immortal  wing  on  wing. 


THE  COMPANIONS 

They  rise  like  flowers,  they  wander  on  wings  of 
light, 

Through  realms  beyond  our  ken. 
The  loneliest  soul  is  companied  tonight 

By  hosts  of  unknown  men. 


[us] 


THE  LITTLE  ROADS 


THE  great  roads  are  all  grown  over 
That  seemed  so  firm  and  white. 
The  deep  black  forests  have  covered  them. 
How  should  I  walk  aright  ? 
How  should  I  thread  these  tangled  mazes, 

Or  grope  to  that  far  off  light? 
I  stumble  round  the  thickets,  and  they  turn  me 
Back  to  the  thickets  and  the  night. 

Yet,  sometimes,  at  a  word,  an  elfin  pass-word, 
(O,  thin,  deep,  sweet  with  beaded  rain!) 

There  shines,  through  a  mist  of  ragged-robins, 

P  The  old  lost  April-coloured  lane, 

That  leads  me  from  myself;  for,  at  a  whisper, 
Where  the  strong  limbs  thrust  in  vain, 

At  a  breath,  if  my  heart  help  another  heart, 
The  path  shines  out  for  me  again. 

A  thin  thread,  a  rambling  lane  for  lovers 
To  the  light  of  the  world's  one  May, 
[116] 


THE  LITTLE  ROADS 

Where  the  white  dropping  flakes  may  wet  our  faces 
As  we  lift  them  to  the  bloom-bowed  spray: 

O  Master,  shall  we  ask  Thee,  then,  for  high-roads, 
Or  down  upon  our  knees  and  pray 

That  Thou  wilt  ever  lose  us  in  Thy  little  lanes, 
And  lead  us  by  a  wandering  way. 


t»7l 


G 


SUNLIGHT  AND  SEA 

IVE  me  the  sunlight  and  the  sea 
And  who  shall  take  my  heaven  from  me? 


Light  of  the  Sun,  Life  of  the  Sun, 
O  happy,  bold  companion, 
Whose  golden  laughters  round  me  run, 
Making  wine  of  the  blue  air 
With  wild-rose  kisses  everywhere, 
Browning  the  limb,  flushing  the  cheek, 
Apple-fragrant,  leopard-sleek, 
Dancing  from  thy  red-curtained  East 
Like  a  Nautch-girl  to  my  feast, 
Proud  because  her  lord,  the  Spring, 
Praised  the  way  those  anklets  ring; 
Or  wandering  like  a  white  Greek  maid 
Leaf-dappled  through  the  dancing  shade, 
Where  many  a  green-veined  leaf  imprints 
Breast  and  limb  with  emerald  tints, 
That  softly  net  her  silken  shape 
But  let  the  splendour  still  escape, 
[118] 


SUNLIGHT  AND  SEA 

While  rosy  ghosts  of  roses  flow 
Over  the  supple  rose  and  snow. 

But  sweetest,  fairest  is  thy  face, 
When  we  meet,  when  we  embrace, 
Where  the  white  sand  sleeps  at  noon 
Round  that  lonely  blue  lagoon, 
Fringed  with  one  white  reef  of  coral 
Where  the  sea-birds  faintly  quarrel 
And  the  breakers  on  the  reef 
Fade  into  a  dream  of  grief, 
And  the  palm-trees  overhead 
Whisper  that  all  grief  is  dead. 

Sister  Sunlight,  lead  me  then 

Into  thy  healing  seas  again  .  .  . 

For  when  we  swim  out,  side  by  side, 

Like  a  lover  with  his  bride, 

When  thy  lips  are  salt  with  brine, 

And  thy  wild  eyes  flash  in  mine, 

The  music  of  a  mightier  sea 

Beats  with  my  blood  in  harmony. 

I  breast  the  primal  flood  of  being, 

Too  clear  for  speech,  too  near  for  seeing; 


SUNLIGHT  AND  SEA 

And  to  his  heart,  new  reconciled, 

The  Eternal  takes  his  earth-bound  child. 

Who  the  essential  secret  spells 
In  those  gigantic  syllables, — 
Flowing,  ebbing,  ebbing,  flowing, — 
Gathers  wisdom  past  all  knowing. 
Song  of  the  Sea,  I  hear,  I  hear, 
That  deeper  music  of  the  sphere, 
Catch  the  rhythm  of  sun  and  star, 
And  know  what  light  and  darkness  are; 
Ay,  faint  beginnings  of  a  rhyme 
That  swells  beyond  the  tides  of  time;* 
Beat  with  thy  rhythm  in  blood  and  breath, 
And  make  one  song  of  life  and  death. 
I  hear,  I  hear,  and  rest  content, 
Merged  in  the  primal  element, 
The  old  element  whence  life  arose, 
The  fount  of  youth,  to  which  it  goes. 

Give  me  the  sunlight  and  the  sea 

And  who  shall  take  my  heaven  from  me? 


[120] 


THE  ROAD  THROUGH  CHAOS 

i. 

THERE  is  one  road,  one  only,  to  the  Light: 
A    narrow    way,    but    Freedom    walks 

therein ; 

A  straight,  firm  road  through  Chaos  and  old  Night, 
And  all  these  wandering  Jack-o-Lents  of  Sin. 

It  is  the  road  of  Law,  where  Pilate  stays 
To  hear,  at  last,  the  answer  to  his  cry; 

And  mighty  sages,  groping  through  their  maze 
Of  eager  questions,  hear  a  child  reply. 

Truth?     What  is   Truth?    Come,  look  upon  my 

tables. 

Begin  at  your  beginnings  once  again. 
Twice  one  is  two!    Though  all  the  rest  be  fables, 
Here's  one  poor  glimpse  of  Truth  to  keep  you 
sane. 

For  Truth,  at  first,  is  clean  accord  with  fact, 
Whether  in  line  or  thought,  or  word,  or  act. 

[121] 


THE  ROAD  THROUGH  CHAOS 

n. 

Then,  by  those  first,  those  clean,  precise,  accords, 
Build  to  the  Lord  your  temples  and  your  song; 

The  curves  of  beauty,  music's  wedded  chords 
Resolving  into  heaven  all  hate  and  wrong. 

Let  harmonies  of  colour  marry  and  follow 

And  breaking  waves  in  a  rhythmic  dance  ensue; 

And  all  your  thought  fly  free  as  the  wings  of  the 

swallow, 
Whose  arrowy  curves  obey  their  measure,  too. 

Then  shall  the  marching  stars  and  tides  befriend 

you, 
And  your  own  heart,  and  the  world's  heart,  pulse 

in  rhyme; 
Then  shall  the  mob  of  the  passions  that  would 

rend  you 
Crown  you  their  Captain  and  march  on  in  time. 

So  shall  you  repossess  your  struggling  soul, 
Conquer  your  world,  and  find  the  eternal  goal. 


[  122] 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  LION 

"And  that  a  reply  be  received  before  midnight." 

British  Ultimatum. 

THEIR  Day  was  at  twelve  of  the  night, 
When  the  graves  give  up  their  dead. 
And  still,  from  the  City,  no  light 
Yellows  the  clouds  overhead. 
Where  the  Admiral  stands  there's  a  star, 

But  his  column  is  lost  in  the  gloom; 
For  the  brazen  doors  are  ajar, 
And  the  Lion  awakes,  and  the  doom. 

He  is  not  of  a  chosen  race. 

His  strength  is  the  strength  of  the  skies. 
In  whose  glory  all  nations  have  place, 

In  whose  downfall  Liberty  dies. 
He  is  mighty,  but  he  is  just. 

He  shall  live  to  the  end  of  years. 
He  shall  bring  the  proud  to  the  dust. 

He  shall  raise  the  weak  to  the  spheres. 

[123] 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  LION 

It  is  night  on  the  world's  great  mart, 

But  the  brooding  hush  is  awake 
With  the  march  of  a  steady  heart 

That  calls  like  the  drum  of  Drake, 
Come!    And  a  muttering  deep 

As  the  pulse  of  the  distant  guns, 
Or  the  thunder  before  the  leap 

Thro'  the  rolling  thoroughfare  runs. 

And  the  wounded  men  go  by 

Like  thoughts  in  the  Lion's  brain. 
And  the  clouds  lift  on  high 

Like  the  slow  waves  of  his  mane 
And  the  narrowing  lids  conceal 

The  furnaces  of  his  eyes. 
Their  gold  is  gone  out.    They  reveal 
Only  two  search-lights  of  steel 

Steadily  sweeping  the  skies. 

And  we  hoped  he  had  peace  in  his  lair 
Where  the  bones  of  old  tyrannies  lay, 

And    the    skulls    that    his    cubs    have    stripped 

bare, 
The  old  skulls  they  still  toss  in  their  play. 

[124] 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  LION 

But  the  tyrants  are  risen  again, 
And  the  last  light  dies  from  their  path; 

For  the  midnight  of  his  mane 
Lifts  to  the  stars  with  his  wrath. 

From  the  East  to  the  West  he  is  crouching. 

He  snuffs  at  the  North-East  wind. 
His  breast  upon  Britain  is  couching. 

His  haunches  quiver  on  Ind. 
It  is  night,  black  night,  where  he  lies; 

But  a  kingdom  and  a  fleet 
Shall  burn  in  his  terrible  eyes 
When  he  leaps,  and  the  darkness  dies 

With  the  War-gods  under  his  feet. 

Till  the  day  when  a  little  child, 

Shall  lay  but  a  hand  on  his  mane. 
And  his  eyes  grow  golden  and  mild 

And  he  stands  in  the  heavens  again; 
Till  the  day  of  the  seventh  sealy 

Which  the  Lion  alone  shall  rendy 
When  the  stars  from  their  courses  reelt 

His  Freedom  shall  not  end. 


[125] 


THE  WAR  WIDOW 
i. 

BLACK-VEILED,  black-gowned,  she  rides  in 
bus  and  train, 

With  eyes  that  fill  too  listlessly  for  tears. 
Her  waxen  hands  clasp  and  unclasp  again. 
Good  News,  they  cry.  She  neither  sees  nor  hears. 

Good   News,   perhaps,   may  crown  some   far-off 

king. 

Good  News  may  peal  the  glory  of  the  state — 
Good  News  may  cause  the  courts  of  heaven  to 

ring. 
She  sees  a  hand  waved  at  a  garden  gate. 

For  her  dull  ears  are  tuned  to  other  themes; 

And  her  dim  eyes  can  never  see  aright. 
She  glides — a  ghost — through  all  her  April  dreams, 

To  meet  his  eyes  at  dawn,  his  lips  at  night. 

Wraiths  of  a  truth  that  others  never  knew; 
And  yet — for  her — the  only  truth  that's  true. 
[126] 


THE  WAR  WIDOW 

11. 

Good  News!  Good  News!  There  is  no  way  but  this. 

Out  of  the  night  a  star  begins  to  rise. 
I  know  not  where  my  soul's  deep  Master  is; 

Nor  can  I  hear  those  angels  in  the  skies; 

Nor  follow  him,  as  childhood  used  of  old, 

By  radiant  seas,  in  those  time-hallowed  tales. 

Only,  at  times,  implacable  and  cold, 

From  this  blind  gloom,  stand  out  the  iron  nails. 

Yet,  at  this  world's  heart  stands  the  Eternal  Cross, 
The  ultimate  frame  of  moon  and  star  and  sun, 

Where  Love  with  out-stretched  arms,  in  utter  loss, 
Points  East  and  West  and  makes  the  whole 
world  one. 

Good  News!    Good  News!    There  is  no  hope,  no 

way, 
No  truth,  no  life,  but  leads  through  Christmas 

Day. 


[127] 


THE  BELL 

^HE  Temple  Bell  was  out  of  tune, 

That  once  out-melodied  sun  and  moon. 

Instead  of  calling  folk  to  prayer 
It  spread  an  evil  in  the  air. 

Instead  of  a  song,  from  north  to  south, 
It  put  a  lie  in  the  wind's  mouth. 

The  very  palms  beneath  it  died, 
So  harsh  it  jarred,  so  loud  it  lied. 

Then  the  gods  told  the  blue-robed  bonze: 
"  Your  Bell  is  only  wrought  of  bronze. 

Lower  it  down,  cast  it  again, 

Or  you  shall  shake  the  heavens  in  vain. " 

Then,  as  the  mighty  cauldron  hissed, 
Men  brought  the  wealth  that  no  man  missed. 
[128] 


THE  BELL 

Yea,  they  brought  silver,  they  brought  gold, 
And  melted  them  into  the  seething  mould. 

The  miser  brought  his  greening  hoard, 
And  the  king  cast  in  his  sword. 

Yet,  when  the  Bell  in  the  Temple  swung, 
It  jarred  the  stars  with  its  harsh  tongue. 


Is  this  your  best?"  the  oracle  said, 
Then  were  you  better  drunk  or  dead. 


Once  again  they  melted  it  down, 
And  the  king  cast  in  his  crown. 

Then  they  poured  wine,  and  bullock's  blood, 
Into  the  hot,  grey,  seething  flood. 

They  gave  it  mellowing  fruits  to  eat, 
And  honey-combs  to  make  it  sweet. 

Yet,  when  they  hauled  it  to  the  sky, 
The  Bell  was  one  star-shattering  lie. 

So,  for  the  third  time  and  the  last, 
They  lowered  it  down  to  be  re-cast. 
[129] 


THE  BELL 

The  white-hot  metal  seethed  anew, 
And  the  crowd  shrank  as  the  heat  grew; 

But  a  white-robed  woman,  queenly  and  tall, 
Pressed  to  the  brink  before  them  all, 

One  breast,  like  a  golden  fruit  lay  bare; 
She  held  her  small  son  feeding  there. 

She  plucked  him  off,  she  lifted  him  high, 
Like  rose-red  fruit  on  the  blue  sky. 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  the  budded  feet, 
And  murmured  softly,  "Oh,  sweet,  my  sweet.' 

She  whispered,  "Gods,  that  my  land  may  live, 
I  give  the  best  that  I  have  to  give!" 

Then,  then,  before  the  throng  awoke, 
Before  one  cry  from  their  white  lips  broke, 

She  tossed  him  into  the  fiery  flood, 
Her  child,  her  baby,  her  flesh  and  blood. 

And  the  crisp  hissing  waves  closed  round 
And  melted  him  through  without  a  sound. 

[130] 


THE  BELL 

"  Too  quick  for  pain, "  they  heard  her  say, 
And  she  sobbed,  once,  and  she  turned  away. 
******* 

The  Temple  Bell,  in  peace  and  war, 
Keeps  the  measure  of  sun  and  star. 

But  sometimes,  in  the  night  it  cries 
Faintly,  and  a  voice  replies: 

Mother,  Oh,  mother,  the  Bell  rings  true! — 

You    were    all    that    I    had! — Oh,    mother,    my 

mother! — 

With  the  land  and  the  Bell  it  is  well.     Is  it  well, 
Is  it  well  with  the  heart  that  had  you  and  none 
other? 


[131] 


SLAVE  AND  EMPEROR 

"Our  cavalry  have  rescued  Nazareth  from  the  enemy  whose  super- 
men  described   Christianity   as   a  creed   for  slaves." 


Emperor  mocked  at  Nazareth 

In  his  almighty  hour. 
The  Slave  that  bowed  himself  to  death 
And  walked  with  slaves  in  Nazareth, 
What  were  his  words  but  wasted  breath 
Before  that  "will  to  power"? 

Yet,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  all, 

When  black  defeat  began, 
The  Emperor  heard  the  mountains  quake, 
He  felt  the  graves  beneath  him  shake, 
He  watched  his  legions  rally  and  break, 

And  he  whimpered  as  they  ran. 

"I  hear  a  shout  that  moves  the  earth, 

A  cry  that  wakes  the  dead  ! 
Will  no  one  tell  me  whence  they  come, 
For  all  my  messengers  are  dumb  ? 
What  power  is  this  that  comes  to  birth 

And  breaks  my  power?"  he  said. 


SLAVE  AND  EMPEROR 

Then,  all  around  his  foundering  guns, 

Though  dawn  was  now  not  far, 
The  darkness  filled  with  a  living  fear 
That  whispered  at  the  Emperor's  ear, 
"  The  armies  of  the  dead  draw  near 
Beneath  an  eastern  star. " 

The  trumpet  blows  in  Nazareth. 

The  Slave  is  risen  again. 
Across  the  bitter  wastes  of  death 
The  horsemen  ride  from  Nazareth, 
4nd  the  Power  we  mocked  as  wasted  breath 

Returns,  in  power,  to  reign; 
Rides  on,  in  white,  through  Nazareth, 

To  save  His  world  again. 


[133] 


/     ON  A  MOUNTAIN  TOP 

ON  this  high  altar,  fringed  with  ferns 
That  darken  against  the  sky, 
The  dawn  in  lonely  beauty  burns 
And  all  our  evils  die. 

The  struggling  sea  that  roared  below 

Is  quieter  than  the  dew, 
Quieter  than  the  clouds  that  flow 

Across  the  stainless  blue. 

On  this  bare  crest,  the  angels  kneel 
And  breathe  the  sweets  that  rise 

From  flowers  too  little  to  reveal 
Their  beauty  to  our  eyes. 

I  have  seen  Edens  on  the  earth 
With  queenly  blooms  arrayed; 

But  here  the  fairest  come  to  birth, 
The  smallest  flowers  He  made. 

O,  high  above  the  sounding  pine, 
And  richer,  sweeter  far, 

[•34] 


ON  A  MOUNTAIN-TOP 

The  wild  thyme  wakes.    The  celandine 
Looks  at  the  morning  star. 

They  may  not  see  the  heavens  unfold. 

They  breathe  no  out-worn  prayer; 
But,  on  a  mountain,  as  of  old, 

His  glory  fills  the  air. 


EARLY  POEMS 

(Not  Published  Hitherto  in  America) 


^  THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 
(1904) 

THE  sunset  lingered  in  the  pale  green  West: 
In  rosy  wastes  the  low  soft  evening  star 
Woke;  while  the  last  white  sea-mew  sought 
for  rest; 
And  tawny  sails  came  stealing  o'er  the  bar. 

But,  in  the  hillside  cottage,  through  the  panes 
The  light  streamed  like  a  thin  far  trumpet-call, 

And  quickened,  as  with  quivering  battle-stains, 
The  printed  ships  that  decked  the  parlour  wall. 

From  oaken  frames  old  admirals  looked  down: 
They  saw  the  lonely  slumberer  at  their  feet: 

They  saw  the  paper,  headed  Talk  from  Town; 
Our  rusting  trident,  and  our  phantom  fleet: 

And  from  a  neighbouring  tavern  surged  a  song 
Of  England  laughing  in  the  face  of  war, 

With  eyes  unconquerably  proud  and  strong, 
And  lips  triumphant  from  her  Trafalgar. 

[139] 


THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 

But  he,  the  slumberer  in  that  glimmering  room, 
Saw  distant  waters  glide  and  heave  and  gleam; 

Around  him  in  the  softly  coloured  gloom 
The  pictures  clustered  slowly  to  a  dream. 

He  saw  how  England,  resting  on  her  past, 
Among  the  faded  garlands  of  her  dead, 

Woke;  for  a  whisper  reached  her  heart  at  last, 
And  once  again  she  raised  her  steel-clad  head. 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  sudden  strange  alarms; 

She   heard   the  westering  waters   change   and 

chime; 
She  heard  the  distant  tumult  of  her  arms 

Defeated,  not  by  courage,  but  by  Time. 

Knowledge  had  made  a  deadlier  pact  with  death, 
Nor  strength  nor  steel  availed  against  that  bond : 

Slowly  approached — and  Britain  held  her  breath — 
The  battle  booming  from  the  deeps  beyond. 

O,  then  what  darkness  rolled  upon  the  wind, 
Threatening  the  torch  that  Britain  held  on  high  ? 

Where  all  her  navies,  baffled,  broken,  blind, 
Slunk  backward,  snarling  in  their  agony! 
Who  guards  the  gates  of  Freedom  now?    The  cry 
[140] 


THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 

Stabbed  heaven!     England,  the  shattered  ramparts 

fall! 

Then,  like  a  trumpet  shivering  through  the  sky 
O,  like  white  lightning  rending  the  black  pall 
Of  heaven,  an  answer  pealed :   Her  dead  shall  hear 
that  call. 

Then  came  a  distant  light  of  great  waves  breaking 
That  brought  the  sunset  on  each  crumbling 

crest, 
A  rumour  as  of  buried  ages  waking, 

And  mighty  spirits  rising  from  their  rest; 
Then  ghostly  clouds  arose,  with  billowing  breast, 
White  clouds  that  turned  to  sails  upon  their  way, 
Red  clouds  that  burned  like  flags  against  the 

West, 

Till  even  the  conquering  fleet  in  silence  lay 
Dazed  with  that  strange  old  light,  and  night  grew 
bright  as  day. 

We  come  to  fight  for  Freedom!    The  great  East 
Heard,  and  was  rent  asunder  like  a  veil. 

Host  upon  host  out  of  the  night  increased 

Its  towering  clouds  and  crowded  zones  of  sail: 
England,  our  England,  canst  thou  faint  or  fail? 

[141] 


THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 

We  come  to  fight  for  Freedom  yet  once  more! 

This,  this  is  ours  at  least!     Count  the  great  tale 
Of  all  these  dead  that  rise  to  guard  thy  shore 
By  right  of  the  red  life  they  never  feared  to  pour. 

We  come  to  fight  for  Freedom!    On  they  came, 
One  cloud  of  beauty  sweeping  the  wild  sea; 

And  there,  through  all  their  thousands,  flashed 

like  flame 

That  star-born  signal  of  the  Victory: 
Duty,  that  deathless  lantern  of  the  free; 

Duty,  that  makes  a  god  of  every  man. 
And  there  was  Nelson,  watching  silently 

As  through  the  phantom  fleet  the  message  ran; 

And  his  tall  frigate  rushed  before  the  stormy  van. 

Nelson,  our  Nelson,  frail  and  maimed  and  blind, 

Stretched  out  his  dead  cold  face  against  the  foe : 
And  England's  Raleigh  followed  hard  behind, 
With  all  his  eager  fighting  heart  aglow; 
Glad,  glad   for  England's  sake  once  more  to 

know 

The  old  joy  of  battle  and  contempt  of  pain; 
Glad,  glad  to  die,  if  England  willed  it  so, 
[142] 


THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 

The  traitor's  and  the  coward's  death  again; 
But  hurl  the  world  back  now  as  once  he  hurled 
back  Spain. 

And  there  were  all  those  others,  Drake  and  Blake, 
Rodney  and  Howard,  Byron,  Collingwood; 

With  deathless  eyes  aflame  for  England's  sake, 
As  on  their  ancient  decks  they  proudly  stood, — 
Decks  washed  of  old  with  England's  purplest 
blood; 

And  there,  once  more,  each  rushing  oaken  side 
Bared  its  dark-throated,  thirsty,  gleaming  brood 

Of  cannon,  watched  by  laughing  lads  who  died 

Long,  long  ago  for  England  and  her  ancient  pride. 

We  come  to  fight  for  England!    The  great  sea 
In  a  wild  light  of  song  began  to  break 

Round  that  tall  phantom  of  the  Victory 
And  all  the  foam  was  music  in  her  wake: 
Ship  after  phantom  ship,  with  guns  a-rake 

And  shot-rent  flags  a-stream  from  every  mast 
Moved  in  a  deepening  splendour,  not  to  make 

A  shield  for  England  of  her  own  dead  past; 

But,  with  a  living  dream  to  arm  her  soul  at  last. 

[143] 


THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 

We  come  to  die  for  England:  through  the  hush 
Of  gathered  nations  rose  that  regal  cry, 

From  naked  oaken  walls  one  word  could  crush 
If  those  vast  armoured  throats  dared  to  reply: 
But  there  the  most  implacable  enemy 

Felt  his  eyes  fill  with  gladder,  prouder  tears, 
As  Nelson's,  calm  eternal  face  went  by, 

Gazing  beyond  all  perishable  fears 

To  some  diviner  goal  above  the  waste  of  years. 

Through  the  hushed  fleets  the  vision  streamed 

away, 
Then  slowly  turned  once  more  to  that  deep 

West, 

While  voices  cried,  O,  England,  the  new  day 
Is  dawning,  but  thy  soul  can  take  no  rest. 

Thy  freedom  and  thy  peace  are  only  thine 
By  right  of  toil  on  every  land  and  sea 

And  by  that  crimson  sacrificial  wine 

Of  thine  own  heart  and  thine  own  agony. 

Peace  is  not  slumber.   Peace,  in  every  hour, 
Throbs  like  the  heart  of  music.    This  alone 


THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 

Can  save  thy  heritage  and  confirm  that  power 
Whereof  the  past  is  but  the  cushioned  throne. 

Look  to  the  fleet!    Again  and  yet  again, 

Hear  us  who  storm  thy  heart  with  this  one  cry. 

Hear  us,  who  cannot  help,  though  fair  and  fain, 
To  hold  thy  seas  before  thee,  and  to  die. 

Look  to  the  fleet!    Thy  fleet,  the  first,  last  line: 
The  sword  of  Liberty,  her  strength,  her  shield, 

Her  food,  her  life-blood !     Britain,  it  is  thine, 
Here,  now,  to  hold  that  birth-right,  or  to  yield. 

So,  through  the  dark,  those  phantom  ships  of  old 

Faded,  it  seemed,  through  mists  of  blood  and 

tears. 
Sails  turned  to  clouds,  and  slowly  westward  rolled 

The  sad  returning  pageant  of  the  years. 
On  tides  of  light,  where  all  our  tumults  cease, 

Through  that  rich  West,  the  Victory  returned; 
And  all  the  waves  around  her  whispered  "peace," 

And  from  her  mast  no  battle-message  burned. 

Like  clouds,  like  fragments  of  those  fading  skies, 
The  pageant  passed,  with  all  its  misty  spars, 

[145] 


THE  PHANTOM  FLEET 

While  the  hushed  nations  raised  their  dreaming 

eyes 
To  that  great  light  which  brings  the  end  of  wars. 

Ship  after  ship,  in  some  strange  glory  drowned, 
Cloud  after  cloud,  was  lost  in  that  deep  light 

Each  with  a  sovran  stillness  haloed  round. 
Then — that  high  fleet  of  stars  led  on  the  night. 


[146] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 


u 


NDER  an  arch  of  glorious  leaves  I  passed 
Out  of  the  wood  and  saw  the  sickle  moon 
Floating  in  daylight  o'er  the  pale  green  sea. 


It  was  the  quiet  hour  before  the  sun 

Gathers  the  clouds  to  prayer  and  silently 

Utters  his  benediction  on  the  waves 

That  whisper  round  the  death-bed  of  the  day. 

The  labourers  were  returning  from  the  farms 

And  children  danced  to  meet  them.    From  the 

doors 

Of  cottages  there  came  a  pleasant  clink 
Where  busy  hands  laid  out  the  evening  meal. 
From  smouldering  elms  around  the  village  spire 
There  soared  and  sank  the  caw  of  gathering  rooks. 
The  faint-flushed  clouds  were  listening  to  the  tale 
The  sea  tells  to  the  sunset  with  one  sigh. 
The  last  white  wistful  sea-bird  sought  for  peace, 
And  the  last  fishing-boat  stole  o'er  the  bar, 
And  fragrant  grasses,  murmuring  a  prayer, 

[147] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

Bowed  all  together  to  the  holy  west, 
Bowed  all  together  thro'  the  golden  hush, 
The  breathing  hush,  the  solemn  scented  hush, 
The  holy,  holy  hush  of  eventide. 

And,  in  among  the  ferns  that  crowned  the  hill 
With  waving  green  and  whispers  of  the  wind, 
A  boy  and  girl,  carelessly  linking  hands, 
Into  their  golden  dream  drifted  away. 
On  that  rich  afternoon  of  scent  and  song 
Old  Michael  Oaktree  died.     It  was  not  much 
He  wished  for;  but  indeed  I  think  he  longed 
To  see  the  light  of  summer  once  again 
Blossoming  o'er  the  far  blue  hills.     I  know 
He  used  to  like  his  rough-hewn  wooden  bench 
Placed  in  the  sun  outside  the  cottage  door 
Where  in  the  listening  stillness  he  could  hear, 
Across  the  waving  gilly-flowers  that  crowned 
His  crumbling  garden  wall,  the  long  low  sigh 
Of  supreme  peace  that  whispers  to  the  hills 
The  sacred  consolation  of  the  sea. 
He  did  not  hope  for  much :   he  longed  to  live 
Until  the  winter  came  again,  he  said; 
But  on  the  last  sweet  eve  of  May  he  died. 
[148] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

I  wandered  sadly  through  the  dreaming  lanes 
Down  to  the  cottage  on  that  afternoon; 
For  I  had  known  old  Michael  Oaktree  now 
So  many  years,  so  many  happy  years. 
When  I  was  little  he  had  carried  me 
High  on  his  back  to  see  the  harvest  home, 
And  given  me  many  a  ride  upon  his  wagon 
Among  the  dusty  scents  of  sun  and  hay. 
He  showed  me  how  to  snare  the  bulky  trout 
That  lurked  under  the  bank  of  yonder  brook. 
Indeed,  he  taught  me  many  a  country  craft, 
For  I  was  apt  to  learn,  and,  as  I  learnt, 
I  loved  the  teacher  of  that  homely  lore. 
Deep  in  my  boyish  heart  he  shared  the  glad 
Influence  of  the  suns  and  winds  and  waves, 
Giving  my  childhood  what  it  hungered  for — 
The  rude  earth-wisdom  of  the  primal  man. 

He  had  retained  his  childhood :   Death  for  him 
Had  no  more  terror  than  his  bed.     He  walked 
With  wind  and  sunlight  like  a  brother,  glad 
Of  their  companionship  and  mutual  aid. 
We,  toilers  after  truth,  are  weaned  too  soon 
From  earth's  dark  arms  and  naked  barbarous  breast. 

[149] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

Too  soon,  too  soon,  we  leave  the  golden  feast, 

Fetter  the  dancing  limbs  and  pluck  the  crown 

Of  roses  from  the  dreaming  brow.     We  pass 

Our  lives  in  most  laborious  idleness. 

For  we  have  lost  the  meaning  of  the  world; 

We  have  gone  out  into  the  night  too  soon; 

We  have  mistaken  all  the  means  of  grace 

And  over-rated  our  small  power  to  learn. 

And  the  years  move  so  swiftly  over  us: 

We  have  so  little  time  to  live  in  worlds 

Unrealised  and  unknown  realms  of  joy, 

We  are  so  old  before  we  learn  how  vain 

Our  effort  was,  how  fruitlessly  we  cast 

Our  Bread  upon  the  waters,  and  how  weak 

Our  hearts  were,   but  our  chance   desires   how 

strong! 

Then,  in  the  dark,  our  sense  of  light  decays; 
We  cannot  cry  to  God  as  once  we  cried ! 
Lost  in  the  gloom,  our  faith,  perhaps  our  love, 
Lies  dead  with  years  that  never  can  return. 

»x^/ 

But  Michael  Oaktree  was  a  man  whose  love 
Had  never  waned  through  all  his  eighty  years. 
His  faith  was  hardly  faith.     He  seemed  a  part 

[150] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

Of  all  that  he  believed  in.     He  had  lived 
In  constant  conversation  with  the  sun, 
The  wind,  the  silence  and  the  heart  of  peace; 
In  absolute  communion  with  the  Power 
That  rules  all  action  and  all  tides  of  thought, 
And  all  the  secret  courses  of  the  stars; 
The  Power  that  still  establishes  on  earth 
Desire  and  worship,  through  the  radiant  laws 
Of  Duty,  Love  and  Beauty;  for  through  these 
As  through  three  portals  of  the  self-same  gate 
The  soul  of  man  attains  infinity, 
And  enters  into  Godhead.     So  he  gained 
On  earth  a  fore-taste  of  Nirvana,  not 
The  void  of  eastern  dream,  but  the  desire 
And  goal  of  all  of  us,  whether  thro'  lives 
Innumerable,  by  slow  degrees,  we  near 
The  death  divine,  or  from  this  breaking  body 
Of  earthly  death  we  flash  at  once  to  God. 
Through  simple  love  and  simple  faith,  this  man 
Attained  a  height  above  the  hope  of  kings. 

Yet,  as  I  softly  shut  the  little  gate 

And  walked  across  the  garden,  all  the  scents 

Of  mingling  blossom  ached  like  inmost  pain 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

Deep  in  my  heart,  I  know  not  why.    They  seemed 

Distinct,  distinct  as  distant  evening  bells 

Tolling,  over  the  sea,  a  secret  chime 

That  breaks  and  breaks  and  breaks  upon  the  heart 

In  sorrow  rather  than  in  sound,  a  chime 

Strange  as  a  streak  of  sunset  to  the  moon, 

Strange  as  a  rose  upon  a  starlit  grave, 

Strange  as  a  smile  upon  a  dead  man's  lips; 

A  chime  of  melancholy,  mute  as  death 

But  strong  as  love,  uttered  in  plangent  tones 

Of  honeysuckle,  jasmine,  gilly-flowers, 

Jonquils  and  aromatic  musky  leaves, 

Lilac  and  lilies  to  the  rose-wreathed  porch. 

At  last  I  tapped  and  entered  and  was  drawn 

Into  the  bedroom  of  the  dying  man, 

Who  lay,  propped  up  with  pillows,  quietly 

Gazing;  for  through  his  open  casement  far 

Beyond  the  whispers  of  the  gilly-flowers 

He  saw  the  mellow  light  of  eventide 

Hallow  the  west  once  more;  and,  as  he  gazed, 

I  think  I  never  saw  so  great  a  peace 

On  any  human  face.    There  was  no  sound 

Except  the  slumbrous  pulsing  of  a  clock, 

[152] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

The  whisper  of  the  garden  and,  far  off, 
The  sacred  consolation  of  the  sea. 

His  wife  sat  at  his  bed-side:   she  had  passed 
Her  eightieth  year;  her  only  child  was  dead. 
She  had  been  wedded  more  than  sixty  years, 
And  she  sat  gazing  with  the  man  she  loved 
Quietly,  out  into  that  unknown  Deep. 

A  butterfly  floated  into  the  room 
And  back  again,  pausing  awhile  tc  bask 
And  wink  its  painted  fans  on  the  warm  sill; 
A  bird  piped  in  the  roses  and  there  came 
Into  the  childless  mother's  ears  a  sound 
Of  happy  laughing  children,  far  away. 

Then  Michael  Oaktree  took  his  wife's  thin  hand 
Between  his  big  rough  hands.  His  eyes  grew  dark, 
And,  as  he  turned  to  her  and  died,  he  spoke 
Two  words  of  perfect  faith  and  love — Come  soon! 

O  then  in  all  the  world  there  was  no  sound 
Except  the  slumbrous  pulsing  of  a  clock, 
The  whisper  of  the  leaves  and  far  away, 
The  infinite  compassion  of  the  sea. 

[153] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

But,  as  I  softly  passed  out  of  the  porch 
And  walked  across  the  garden,  all  the  scents 
Of  mingling  blossoms  ached  like  inmost  joy,   ' 
Distinct  no  more,  but  like  one  heavenly  choir 
Pealing  one  mystic  music,  still  and  strange 
As  voices  of  the  holy  Seraphim, 
One  voice  of  adoration,  mute  as  love, 
Stronger    than    death,    and    pure   with    wedded 

tones 

Of  honeysuckle,  jasmine,  gilly-flowers, 
Jonquils  and  aromatic  musky  leaves, 
Lilac  and  lilies  to  the  garden  gate. 

O  then  indeed  I  knew  how  closely  knit 
To  stars  and  flowers  we  are,  how  many  means 
Of  grace  there  are  for  those  that  never  lose 
Their  sense  of  membership  in  this  divine 
Body  of  God;  for  those  that  all  their  days 
Have  walked  in  quiet  communion  with  the  Life 
That  keeps  the  common  secret  of  the  sun, 
The  wind,  the  silence  and  the  heart  of  man. 
There  is  one  God,  one  Love,  one  everlasting 
Mystery  of  Incarnation,  one  creative 
Passion  behind  the  many-coloured  veil. 

[154] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

We  have  obscured  God's  face  with  partial  truths, 
The  cause  of  all  our  sorrow  and  sin,  our  wars 
Of  force  and  thought,  in  this  unheavened  world. 
Yet,  by  the  battle  of  our  partial  truths, 
The  past  against  the  present  and  the  swift 
Moment  of  passing  joy  against  the  deep 
Eternal  love,  ever  the  weaker  truth 
Falls  to  the  stronger,  till  once  more  we  near 
The  enfolding  splendour  of  the  whole.     Our  God 
Has  been  too  long  a  partial  God.     We  are  all 
Made  in  His  image,  men  and  birds  and  beasts, 
Mountains  and  clouds  and  cataracts  and  suns, 
With  those  great  Beings  above  our  little  world, 
A  height  beyond  for  every  depth  below, 
Those  long-forgotten  Princedoms,  Virtues,  Powers, 
Existences  that  live  and  move  in  realms 
As  far  beyond  our  thought  as  Europe  lies 
With  all  its  little  arts  and  sciences 
Beyond  the  comprehension  of  the  worm. 
We  are  all  partial  images,  we  need 
What  lies  beyond  us  to  complete  our  souls; 
Therefore  our  souls  are  filled  with  a  desire 
And  love  which  lead  us  towards  the  Infinity 
Of  Godhead  that  awaits  us  each  and  all. 

[155] 


MICHAEL  OAKTREE 

Peacefully  through  the  dreaming  lanes  I  went. 
The  sun  sank,  and  the  birds  were  hushed.     The 

stars 

Trembled  like  blossoms  in  the  purple  trees. 
But,  as  I  paused  upon  the  whispering  hill 
The  mellow  light  still  lingered  in  the  west, 
And  dark  and  soft  against  that  rosy  depth 
A  boy  and  girl  stood  knee-deep  in  the  ferns. 
Dreams  of  the  dead  man's  youth  were  in  my  heart, 
Yet  I  was  very  glad;  and  as  the  moon 
Brightened,  they  kissed;  and,  linking  hand  in  hand, 
Down  to  their  lamp-lit  home  drifted  away. 

Under  an  arch  of  leaves,  into  the  gloom 

I  went  along  the  little  woodland  road, 

And  through  the  breathless  hedge  of  hawthorn 

heard 

Out  of  the  deepening  night,  the  long  low  sigh 
Of  supreme  peace  that  whispers  to  the  hills 
The  sacrament  and  sabbath  of  the  sea. 


[156] 


TOUCHSTONE  ON  A  BUS 


TOUCHSTONE  ON  A  BUS 

LAST  night  I  rode  with  Touchstone  on  a  bus 
From  Ludgate  Hill  to  World's  End.     It  was 

he! 

Despite  the  broadcloth  and  the  bowler  hat, 
I  knew  him,  Touchstone,  the  wild  flower  of  folly, 
The  whetstone  of  his  age,  the  scourge  of  kings, 
The  madcap  morning  star  of  elfin-land, 
Who  used  to  wrap  his  legs  around  his  neck 
For  warmth  on  winter  nights.     He  had  slipped 

back, 

To  see  what  men  were  doing  in  a  world 
That  should  be  wiser.     He  had  watched  a  play, 
Read  several  books,  heard  men  discourse  of  art 
And  life;  and  he  sat  bubbling  like  a  spring 
In  Arden.    Never  did  blackbird,  drenched  with 

may, 

Chuckle  as  Touchstone  chuckled  on  that  ride. 
Lord,  what  a  world!     Lord,  what  a  mad,  mad  world! 
Then,  to  the  jolt  and  jingle  of  the  engine, 
He  burst  into  this  bunch  of  mad-cap  rhymes: — 

[159] 


THE  NEW  DUCKLING 

i 

THE   NEW  DUCKLING 

"T  WANT  to  be  new,"  said  the  duckling. 
JL     "O,  ho!"  said  the  wise  old  owl, 

While  the  guinea-hen  cluttered  off  chuckling 
To  tell  all  the  rest  of  the  fowl. 

"I  should  like  a  more  elegant  figure," 

That  child  of  a  duck  went  on. 
"I  should  like  to  grow  bigger  and  bigger, 

Until  I  could  swallow  a  swan. 

"I  wont  be  the  bond  slave  of  habit, 

I  wont  have  these  webs  on  my  toes. 
I  want  to  run  round  like  a  rabbit, 
I*  A  rabbit  as  red  as  a  rose. 

"I  don't  want  to  waddle  like  mother, 

Or  quack  like  my  silly  old  dad. 
I  want  to  be  utterly  other, 

And  frightfully  modern  and  mad." 

"Do    you    know,"    said    the    turkey,    "you're 

quacking! 

There's  a  fox  creeping  up  thro*  the  rye; 
[160] 


DISCOVERED  THE  USE  OF  A  CHAIR 

And,  if  you're  not  utterly  lacking, 

You'll  make  for  that  duck-pond.    Good-bye!" 

"I  won't, "  said  the  duckling.     "I'll  lift  him 

A  beautiful  song,  like  a  sheep; 
And  when  I  have — as  it  were — biffed  him, 

I'll  give  him  my  feathers  to  keep. " 

Now  the  curious  end  of  this  fable, 

So  far  as  the  rest  ascertained, 
Though  they  searched  from  the  barn  to  the  stable, 

Was  that  only  his  feathers  remained. 

So  he  wasn't  the  bond  slave  of  habit, 
And  he  didnt  have  webs  on  his  toes; 

And  perhaps  he  runs  round  like  a  rabbit, 
A  rabbit  as  red  as  a  rose. 

ii 

THE   MAN  WHO  DISCOVERED  THE   USE~  OF  A   CHAIR 

THE  man  who  discovered  the  use  of  a  chair, 
Odds— bobs— 

What  a  wonderful  man! 
He  used  to  sit  down  on  it,  tearing  his  hair, 
Till  he  thought  of  a  highly  original  plan. 
[161] 


DISCOVERED  THE  USE  OF  A  CHAIR 

For  years  he  had  sat  on  his  chair,  like  you, 

Quite — still! 

But  his  looks  were  grim 
For  he  wished  to  be  famous  (as  great  men  do) 

And  nobody  ever  would  listen  to  him. 

Now  he  went  one  night  to  a  dinner  of  state 
Hear!    hear! 

In  ike  proud  Guildhall! 
And    he   sat   on   his  chair,   and  he  ate  from  a 

plate; 
But  nobody  heard  his  opinions  at  all; 

There  were  ten  fat  aldermen  down  for  a  speech 

(Grouse!    Grouse! 

What  a  dreary  bird!) 
With  five  fair  minutes  allotted  to  each, 

But  never  a  moment  for  him  to  be  heard. 

But,  each  being  ready  to  talk,  I  suppose, 
Order!    Order! 

They  cried,  for  the  Chair! 
And,  much  to  their  wonder,  our  friend  arose 
And  fastened  his  eye  on  the  eye  of  the  Mayor. 
[162] 


DISCOVERED  THE  USE  OF  A  CHAIR 

"We  have  come,"  he  said,  "to  the   fourteenth 

course! 
"High — time, 

for  the  Chair,"  he  said. 
Then,  with  both  of  his  hands,  and  with  all  of  his 

force, 
He  hurled  his  chair  at  the  Lord  Mayor's  head. 

It  missed  that  head  by  the  width  of  a  hair. 

Gee — whizz! 

What  a  horrible  squeak! 
But  it  crashed  through  the  big  bay-window  there 

And  smashed  a  bus  into  Wednesday  week. 

And  the  very  next  day,  in  the  decorous  Times 

(Great — Guns — 

How  the  headlines  ran!) 
In  spite  of  the  kings  and  the  wars  and  the  crimes, 

There  were  five  full  columns  about  that  man. 

ENVOI 

Oh,  if  you  get  dizzy  when  authors  write 

(My  stars! 

And  you  very  well  may!) 

[163] 


COTTON-WOOL 

That  white  is  black  and  that  black  is  white, 
You  should  sit,  quite  still,  in  your  chair  and  say: 

It  is  easy  enough  to  be  famous  now, 

PU/—PU/! 

How  the  trumpets  blare!} 
Provided,  of  course,  that  you  don't  care  how, 

Like  the  man  who  discovered  the  use  of  a  chair. 

in 

COTTON-WOOL 

SHUN  the  brush  and  shun  the  pen, 
Shun  the  ways  of  clever  men, 
When  they  prove  that  black  is  white, 
Whey  they  swear  that  wrong  is  right, 
When  they  roast  the  singing  stars 
Like  chestnuts,  in  between  the  bars, 
Children,  let  a  wandering  fool 
Stuff  your  ears  with  cotton-wool. 

When  you  see  a  clever  man 
Run  as  quickly  as  you  can. 
You  must  never,  never,  never 
Think  that  Socrates  was  clever. 

[164] 


COTTON-WOOL 

The  cleverest  thing  I  ever  knew 
Now  cracks  walnuts  at  the  Zoo. 
Children,  let  a  wandering  fool 
Stuff  your  ears  with  cotton-wool. 

Homer  could  not  scintillate. 

Milton,  too,  was  merely  great. 

That's  a  very  different  matter 

From  talking  like  a  frantic  hatter. 

Keats  and  Shelley  had  no  tricks. 

Wordsworth  never  climbed  up  sticks. 
Children,  let  a  wandering  fool 
Stuff  your  ears  with  cotton-wool. 

Lincoln  would  create  a  gloom 
In  many  a  London  drawing-room; 
He'd  be  silent  at  their  wit, 
He  would  never  laugh  at  it. 
When  they  kissed  Salome's  toes, 
I  think  he'd  snort  and  blow  his  nose. 
Children,  let  a  wandering  fool 
Stuff  your  ears  with  cotton-wool. 

They'd  curse  him  for  a  silly  clown, 
They'd  drum  him  out  of  London  town. 

[165] 


FASHIONS 

Professor  Flunkey,  the  historian, 

Would  say  he  was  a  dull  Victorian. 

Matthew,  Mark,  and  Luke  and  John, 

Bless  the  bed  I  rest  upon. 

Children,  let  a  wandering  fool 
Stuff  your  ears  with  cotton-wool. 

Amen. 

IV 

FASHIONS 

FASHION  on  fashion  on  fashion, 
(With  only  the  truth  growing  old !) 
And  here's  the  new  purple  of  passion, 
(And  love  waiting  out  in  the  cold) 

Who'll  buy? 

They  are  crying  new  lamps  for  Aladdin, 
New  worlds  for  the  old  and  the  true; 
And  no  one  remembers  the  story 
The  magic  was  not  in  the  new. 

They  are  crying  a  new  rose  for  Eden, 

A  rose  of  green  glass.     I  suppose 
The  only  thing  wrong  with  their  rose  is 
The  fact  that  it  isn't  a  rose. 
Who'll  buy? 
[166] 


FASHIONS 

And  here  is  a  song  without  metre; 

And,  here  again,  nothing  is  wrong; 
(For  nothing  on  earth  could  be  neater) 

Except  that — it  isn't  a  song. 

Well.     Walk  on  your  hands.     It's  the  latest! 

And  feet  are  Victorian  now; 
And  even  our  best  and  our  greatest 

Before  that  dread  epithet  bow. 

Who'll  buy? 
The  furniture  goes  for  a  song,  now. 

The  sixties  had  horrible  taste. 
But  the  trouble  is  this — they've  included 

Some  better  things,  too,  in  their  haste. 

Were  they  wrapped  in  the  antimacassars, 

Or  sunk  in  a  sofa  of  plush  ? 
Did  an  Angelican  bishop  forget  them, 

And  leave  them  behind  in  the  crush  ? 

Who'll  buy? 
Here's  a  turnex.     It's  going  quite  cheaply. 

(It  lived  with  stuffed  birds  in  the  hall! 
And,  of  course,  to  a  mind  that  thinks  deeply 

That  settles  it,  once  and  for  all.) 

[167] 


FASHIONS 

Here's  item,  a  ring  (very  plain,  sirs!), 

And  item,  a  God  (but  He's  dead !) ; 
They  say  we  shall  need  Him  again,  sirs, 

So — item,  a  cross  for  His  head. 

Who'll  buy? 
Yes,  you'll  need  it  again,  though  He's  dead,  sirs. 

It  is  only  the  fashions  that  fly. 
So  here  are  the  thorns  for  His  head,  sirs. 

They'll  keep  till  you  need  'em.    Who'll  buy? 


[168] 


EPILOGUE 


THE  REWARD  OF  SONG 


do  we  make  our  music? 
Oh,  blind  dark  strings  reply: 
Because  we  dwell  in  a  strange  land 
And  remember  a  lost  sky. 
We  ask  no  leaf  of  the  laurel, 

We  know  what  fame  is  worth; 
But  our  songs  break  out  of  our  winter 
As  the  flowers  break  out  on  the  earth. 

And  we  dream  of  the  unknown  comrade, 

In  the  days  when  we  lie  dead, 
Who  shall  open  our  book  in  the  sunlight, 

And  read,  as  ourselves  have  read, 
On  a  lonely  hill,  by  a  firwood, 

With  whispering  seas  below, 
And  murmur  a  song  we  made  him 

Ages  and  ages  ago. 

If  making  his  may-time  sweeter 
With  dews  of  our  own  dead  may, 

One  pulse  of  our  own  dead  heart-strings 
Awake  in  his  heart  that  day, 


THE  REWARD  OF  SONG 

We  would  pray  for  no  richer  guerdon, 
No  praise  from  the  careless  throng; 

For  song  is  the  cry  of  a  lover 
In  quest  of  an  answering  song. 

As  a  child  might  run  to  his  elders 

With  news  of  an  opening  flower 
We  should  walk  with  our  young  companion 

And  talk  to  his  heart  for  an  hour, 
As  once  by  my  own  green  firwood, 

And  once  by  a  Western  sea, 
Thank  God,  my  own  good  comrades 

Have  walked  and  talked  with  me. 

Too  mighty  to  make  men  sorrow, 

Too  weak  to  heal  their  pain 
(Though  they  that  remember  the  hawthorn 

May  find  their  heaven  again), 
We  are  moved  by  a  deeper  hunger; 

We  are  bound  by  a  stronger  cord; 
For  love  is  the  heart  of  our  music, 

And  love  is  its  one  reward. 


[172] 


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